


Pitchers and Catchers

by Unforth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Sports, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Barebacking, Baseball, Bisexual Castiel, Bisexual Jimmy, Blow Jobs, Castiel Whump, Castiel and Jimmy Novak Are Twins, Castiel is an asshole, Catcher Dean, Catcher Jimmy, Celebrity Castiel, Celebrity Dean, Celebrity Jimmy, Coming Out, Dean Whump, Double Penetration, Elements of RPF, Fluff and Angst, Gay Dean, Happy Ending, Incest, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Pining, Pitcher Castiel, Protective Castiel, Protective Jimmy, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, Supernatural Rare Pair Big Bang 2016, Switch Dean, Switch Jimmy, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Castiel, Twincest, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 122,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his entire career, from Little League to the pros, Castiel Novak has only ever pitched to his twin brother Jimmy Novak. When circumstances force him to need to find a new catcher, Castiel knows there's no replacement for his brother...</p><p>(Note...I have no idea how to summarize this without spoilers. Also, the Sam/Gabe is background)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> omg where to begin. Okay. 
> 
> HI EVERYONE! Welcome to my entry to the 2016 Rare Pair Big Bang. This is my first major writing challenge, and oh boy has it been a doozy! I had the idea to do a Dean/Cas/Jimmy baseball AU last fall, and when I heard about the RPBB I knew *exactly* how things were going to go, but getting this all written has taken me months and is a piece of why I've gotten nothing else posted in a while. I almost didn't finish in time! (seriously, I finished the first draft at a eleven last night...)
> 
> For my regular readers who've been wondering where the heck I am and didn't peak at the short I posted a couple weeks ago...I had a baby boy! He was born on March 16th and, uh, he's distracting. :) And amazing. I'm back at work now, though, so I have time to write there undisturbed, so expect regular updates on stuff once again. :)
> 
> For this story, I was paired with [starkfeels (aka Isis_McGee)](http://starkfeels.tumblr.com/) as my artist. She's been awesome from start to finish, enthusiastic that I was working on a sports AU, encouraging, and very patient when real life got in my way more than I ever expected. :)
> 
> The wonderful [profoundfall](http://archiveofourown.org/users/profoundfall/pseuds/profoundfall) helped me out with beta services, but due to my own challenges getting done *the last four chapters aren't beta'd.* Any and all mistakes are all mine, got it? :) (and you should totally read her stuff and encourage her to post more. Cause she's awesome.)
> 
> So. How many of y'all are poking at this and wondering, "well, crap, I like unforth's writing but I don't know anything about baseball! What should I do?" Worry not! I have planned for this contingency. Originally, this author's note was going to be chuck-full with the basic rules of the game, but when I started to write up a description I realized...baseball is *way* more complicated than I thought it was. I guess when you grow up watching something so much that you just *know* how it works, you don't recognize just how much knowledge goes into that. Cause make no mistake: I am a HUGE baseball fan. My team is the NY Mets and I have been to dozens of games lives and watched hundreds on TV over the years.
> 
> There's really not room for me to give you guys all the ins and outs of baseball, or even the very basics. So, if you don't know the rules of baseball, [here's an overview on Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baseball_rules). If you have additional questions, feel free to ask me in comments and I'll explain.
> 
>  
> 
> **All that said...I think this story will be entirely understandable even if you don't know anything about baseball. At least, I sure hope it will be!! :)**
> 
>  
> 
> As in "What Do I Stand For," I've extensively annotated this text with links to help you guys understand baseball lingo, rules points, nuances, etc. So, if you actually *want* to know lots about baseball, you can read up to your hearts content. 
> 
> A few notes:  
> 1\. Again, you might want to [read the rules of baseball](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baseball_rules).  
> 2\. There are minor elements of RPF in this story. I have replaced the usual players from the Washington Nationals with characters from Supernatural but I left every other team in the league alone (there are just too many players for me to use only SPN characters). As such, numerous real baseball players are mentioned, and some do things that significantly impact events. I did NOT do extensive research on some of those people so let me say upfront: ANY ACTION I HAVE A REAL PERSON TAKE IN THIS STORY IS NOT MEANT TO REFLECT ON THEM AS, YA KNOW, AN ACTUAL HUMAN BEING. I cast real players into the roles I needed them to play. Treat them as fictional versions of themselves, period.  
> 3\. There is explicit Castiel/Jimmy, Jimmy/Dean, Castiel/Dean, and Castiel/Jimmy/Dean in this story. There is no explicit Sabriel, though.  
> 4\. The bulk of this fic was written before the 2016 baseball season began. As such, team standings, real players used, etc., do not reflect the real events of 2016. They represent "best guesses" from information available during the off-season.
> 
> ...I'm probably forgetting a ton of things. I've been thinking about this author's note for like months but still. Remember - if you have questions about baseball, or anything else, feel free to ask! :)

“Tell them he declines the offer.” Castiel’s voice was measured, calm; he had a lifetime of practice at hiding his perturbation when he was upset. If an opposing hitter knew they were getting to him, they’d take advantage, throw him further off-kilter and next thing he knew he’d throw a [hard fastball](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fastball) [down the middle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball_\(D\)#down_the_middle) and have to watch the damn thing [sail out of the park](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Home_run). Manager Milton knew him too well to be fooled, and her raised eyebrow and half-frown showed her skepticism and irritation.

“It’s not up to you,” she said firmly.

“Jimmy has a [no-trade clause](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trade_\(sports\)#No-trade_clause),” insisted Castiel. “He’ll never agree to this move.”

“He already has.”

“What?” Castiel must have misheard or misunderstood. Numb, he met her green-eyed gaze steadily. _Get it together, Novak. The past is irrelevant, all that matters is the next pitch._ “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that without talking it over with me first.”

“He would and he did,” said Milton. “Inviting you to this meeting was a courtesy, Novak. We wouldn’t even bother talking to you about another player’s trade if you weren’t our [ace](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball_\(A\)#ace). I appreciate that Jimmy has been your dedicated catcher since you were in [Little League](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_League_Baseball), but he’s holding you back. For two years, the coaching staff has tried to get it through your head that we cannot spare [a bench seat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Substitution_\(sport\)) to accommodate your brother. If you weren’t so damn stubborn, we wouldn’t have had to handle things this way. This is for the best for Jimmy’s career and for yours. Further, we’ve been trading and recruiting specifically with you in mind. When you report for [Pitchers and Catchers ](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=pitchers+and+catchers)in February, there’ll be a dozen catchers vying for the chance to work with you. You should be flattered.”

“I should be flattered,” Castiel echoed flatly. Milton nodded, brushing impossibly red hair from about her thin face. Five years into being manager of the Washington Nationals and she _still_ got away with murder during the [Winter Meetings](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winter_Meetings) because the old boys club assumed she didn’t know what she was doing. Castiel could be sure that the catchers she acquired during the past two weeks of haggling and negotiation would be the best the league had to offer – not only old veterans, but also up and coming talent with potential in spades, much like Castiel himself. He’d been the [MLB’s ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_League_Baseball)token wunderkind during his rookie year in ‘13, one of Milton’s first success stories. Jimmy’s career hadn’t gone as well; the Nationals preferred strategies didn’t favor Jimmy’s weak hitting or fleet feet. In his heart, Castiel knew that Jimmy would do better elsewhere, but it didn’t matter. Castiel couldn’t pitch without his brother behind the plate. In his entire career he could count the number of games he’d played with any other catcher and all had been memorably disastrous.

“Why would Jimmy agree to this?” he demanded. He barely kept himself from adding _you know I can’t pitch without him_.

“You’ll have to talk to him about that,” was Milton’s no-nonsense reply. “That’s not why I asked you here.” Her lavish hotel room, decorated in shades of cream and green, was a scene of ordered chaos: the coffee table was a tangle of laptops and cords used by the analysts crunching [Sabermetrics ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sabermetrics)for her, the desk held her computer and a pile of folders and flash drives, the pillows on the couches were in disarray, and the garbage overflowed with empty take out containers. Ignoring the mess, Milton walked to the desk and grabbed a flash drive that, to Castiel’s eye, was indistinguishable from the others. “Here are dossiers on all of the available catchers in our organization. I expect you to read these, talk to Singer, and arrive at Pitchers and Catchers with a game plan for evaluating all of them to determine which you’d prefer to work with.”

“What, so you can trade him away too?” Anger leaked through with the words and Castiel forced himself to talk a calming breath. This was the nature of the game. He’d always known something like this could happen. He’d thought that being named the team’s ace, being second in the [Cy Young](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cy_Young_Award) voting for the previous year, would exempt him. Apparently, he wasn’t so valuable as he’d come to believe.

“Look, Novak,” she said in clipped, impatient tones. “We get 25 guys on our roster, period. You’re a damn good pitcher but that doesn’t mean you get to have _two_ of those slots all to yourself. Jimmy was no use to anyone on this team – himself included! – except for you. All of these guys are catchers with great potential _and_ they fit in with our strategy going forward in the 2016 season. Do you want to have a great win-loss ratio, or do you want to help this entire _team_ make it to the World Series? If you’re going to throw a hissy fit over this we _can_ find a new pitcher. You wouldn’t _believe_ the offers I’ve gotten for you.”

“I wouldn’t leave the Nats,” he growled. The press loved to paint Castiel as selfish, aloof, more interested in furthering his own stats and earning awards than helping his team. It was bullshit, but every time he got angry about it to their faces, he only made things worse. _Jimmy said he wouldn’t leave either_ …

“Pick a catcher,” she advised, aggressively stepping into his space, herding him towards the door. She forced the flash drive into his hand. “We’ll talk in a few weeks.”

Turning on a heel, Castiel stormed from the room. He was furious with Milton, furious with Jimmy, furious with Coach Singer and his agent Gabriel and his parents and with every damn person who ever gave him a hard time for being most comfortable pitching to his brother. Pocketing the flash drive, he hurried down the deserted hallways and made for the lobby. He was furious with the press, the members of which would make a gauntlet between him and the parking garage, all determined to ask if he was at the Meetings because a trade was coming. Sure enough, as soon as he stepped off the elevator flashbulbs burst and a cacophony of overlapping voices shouted questions at him. Security guards stepped up to surround him and help him through the mess while he stared hard anger and defiance at every camera that got in his face. He knew _exactly_ what the media and fans would make of his anger when news of Jimmy’s trade came out. God _damn_ he was mad at his brother. How _dare_ he?

Castiel was _furious_ with himself. As he escaped the crowds, made it to the relative sanctuary of his car, and started the motor, it was all he could do not to bang his head against the steering wheel. Only the knowledge that it would take only one paparazzi spotting that to make his life hell for a year restrained him. Jimmy hadn’t even come to Castiel about this. Sure, that said loads about Jimmy, but what did it say about Castiel, about how Jimmy perceived Castiel, about how _everyone_ perceived him? The person he was closest to in the world didn’t feel comfortable coming to him before making a major, life-changing decision that affected them both. As Castiel got on the highway, heading towards the home he and Jimmy shared – or _had_ shared, he supposed; with Jimmy going to the Braves, he’d need a place in Georgia instead – he couldn’t but wonder what he’d done to prompt Jimmy to such an action without even talking it over first.

“Yo, bro!” Jimmy’s voice called brightly from the kitchen as soon as Castiel arrived home. The cheerfulness grated, felt like a lie, helped redirect Castiel’s anger outward. So, Jimmy was happy to get away from him? Jimmy was excited to _move on_? “How’d things go?” Grinding his teeth, Castiel pulled his shoes off, shucked his jacket, and stood paralyzed in their beautiful entrance foyer trying to figuring out what the _fuck_ he was supposed to do now. Polished hard wood, white washed walls and gleaming marble mocked him. They’d started with nothing, playing Little League in the suburbs, their family solidly middle class, earning enough to be comfortable but not enough for luxuries. They’d stuck it out through high school and college ball, always together even when things got rough. They’d managed to get signed to the minors together, when their parents couldn’t support them anymore and they made so little money that they shared a tiny studio and lived on ramen noodles and wondered if they’d manage to even get a [cup of coffee](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cup_of_coffee) in the majors. And they’d been put on the starting roster together in 2013, gotten real contracts together, earned their first million together and gotten their first [pennant ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pennant_\(sports\))together. They had all the money they could want now, plenty for their parents, plenty for their siblings, plenty for their friends, plenty left for investment and charity. It had _always_ been them, together, never just Castiel, never just Jimmy. They’d even chosen the house together.

Jimmy stepped into view at the far end of the airy room, dark hair streaked with white that, judging by the powdery stains on his t-shirt, must be flour, his expression fixed in a broad smile, eyes tense and worried. Had he been like that when Castiel left? Had he just not noticed? The smell of fresh-baked cookies wafted in and Castiel’s stomach flipped with nausea.

 _He’s not just leaving the Nationals, he’s not just leaving Washington, he’s leaving me, he’s leaving me alone_. _What did I do wrong_?

“Do you want a cookie, Cassie?” Jimmy asked with more false happiness. Castiel glared at him and had the gratification of watching Jimmy’s performance slip. His brow furrowed and his lips tensed into a tight line. “Come on, have a damn cookie at least.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We can have this conversation in the living room…or the kitchen…” Jimmy tore away, turned, started to walk deeper into the house.

“Jimmy, _why didn’t you tell me_?” Castiel snarled. Jimmy froze, shoulder’s twitching with tension. “I had to find out from _Milton_? When the whole thing was already set and done? What the _fuck_?”

“We thought it would be for the best,” said Jimmy meekly.

“ _We_? There’s someone else, now? Someone you told before me? Have you been _cheating_ on me, too? Wow, this is one hell of a break up, Jimmy, no point doing things by halves I guess!” Castiel’s shouts echoed off the dome of the ceiling; he could swear his anger caused the crystal chandelier to tinkle.

“What?” Jimmy turned on him, shocked, and crossed to stand before him. “Fuck, no! Of course not! I love you, Cassie, this doesn’t change that! I just meant Gabe and Sam and I – when we got the offer, we talked it over, and we thought… _this_ is why we did it! You’re overreacting! You _always_ overreact to shit like this. All my life, everything I’ve done has been to forward _your_ career, and I was happy to do it, but your career is getting on like a house afire. You’ve gotten the chance to show how good you can be. I just want the same chance! I’m tired of being _Castiel Novak’s brother_. I’m tired of commentators knowing so little about me that they call me _James_. You’ve got yours, Cassie, are you going to begrudge me mine?”

“Jimmy, you didn’t even tell me you were _thinking_ about something like this!” Too angry to keep still, Castiel stalked across the room and got in his brother’s face. “You just _assumed_ I’d overreact! You didn’t even give me the _chance_ to have my own opinion on the matter and now _I’m_ the one being unreasonable?”

“I appreciate that you’re angry—”

“You’re damn fucking _right_ I’m angry,” Castiel slammed his fist into the door frame beside Jimmy’s head, ignoring the horrified look Jimmy gave him.

“Cas...that’s your…that’s your pitching hand…what are you…”

Overriding his stammering protests, Castiel roared in his brother’s face, “Fuck baseball, Jimmy. Fuck pitching and catching and all that shit. You’re my _brother_ , you’re _so much more_ than my brother, and what, you think so little of me that I don’t even warrant a fucking text message warning me that you’re getting traded and moving to Atlanta? How can you think I’d _ever_ have held it against you if you wanted a shot on your own? How long have you known without telling me? This morning? Last night when we made dinner? Two days ago when we went to the movies? A week ago when you joked about getting me a ring? When _exactly_ did we start living a lie?”

“Three days,” whispered Jimmy. His tone suggested he was cowed but there was nothing in his body language or expression to match. Red-faced with anger, eyes narrow, lithe form rigid, Jimmy met Castiel’s eyes, both pairs identically blue as every feature on their faces was identical, his hand shaking at his side. “You…you would have supported me? You really think that? I had no _idea_ you were that delusional.”

“Jimmy—”

“No, you’re going to fucking listen to me for once, Cassie.” Jimmy answered rage with rage. “Every time, every _single damn time_ I’ve suggested going my own way, you’ve shot me down. Always so reasonable, Cassie, always so many _good_ reasons why we should do things in a way that just _happens_ to coincide to precisely what _you_ want. I get that you don’t think you can pitch without me but it’s _bull_ , you’re going to be fine once you get out of your own head about it. I’ve been trying – _everyone_ has been trying – to get you to see that. And when you wouldn’t…this is the best offer I’ve ever gotten, to play on a team where I’m wanted, play on a team where I’m _needed_. You’re right – it was wrong of me to make such a big decision without consulting you – but you’re dead fucking wrong if you think you’d have heard me out. You haven’t heard me yet!”

“I always listen!”

“Have you smelled the shit you’re shoveling?” demanded Jimmy. “What about last year when I got that offer from the Yankees?”

“That was a lousy deal,” Cassie snapped. “You thought so too! There was no way you had a shot at the starting day roster. You’d have been stuck in the minors again and living in fucking _Scranton_.”

“Oh, and the one from LA?”

“You said you didn’t want to live on the West Coast!”

“No, Cassie, _you_ said that, which is funny since _no one was asking you to live on the West Coast_!” Exasperated, Jimmy wheeled and headed deeper into the house, leaving Castiel standing, seething, his aching hand pressed to the door frame.

“And now you’re going to walk away?” he shouted after his brother.

“What’s there to say?” Jimmy called back. “I appreciate your self-righteous anger, it’s completely in character. Congratulations. You’re pissed. Do you want a fucking medal? And you’re right. In other circumstances, I _should_ have talked it over with you, but you’ve clearly got no fricken clue how _impossible_ you are to talk to when you think you know best. Like, say, right now.”

Castiel drew a long, slow breath, let it out a little at a time. It was a strategy he’d learned when he was frazzled on the[mound](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball_\(M\)#mound), helped him center himself, helped him push away extraneous thoughts and focus on the moment, focus on the task at hand. Jimmy certainly _thought_ he was speaking the truth, he truly believed that Castiel was unreasonable, selfish, self-centered, vain. God, that hurt. Castiel thought Jimmy was _amazing_. Gathering himself, quelling his anger as best he could, Castiel reluctantly made his way down the hall, following his hunch that Jimmy had returned to the kitchen. Sure enough, Jimmy stood at the stove, atop which two racks of cookies were cooling. The room smelled divine, cooked chocolate and caramelized sugar and risen flour combining to create perfection. Jimmy made awesome cookies, most often when he felt guilty about something. Watching him silently, idly rubbing at his throbbing knuckles, Castiel’s heart ached. The fact that they were identical twins was irrelevant, Jimmy was beautiful in a way Castiel never saw in himself – confident, generous, dedicated, incredibly hard-working. Once Jimmy set his mind to a task, he succeeded. If not for his drive, Castiel doubted either of them would have ended up in the majors. And now he was leaving. Castiel would go to practice every day alone, stretch alone, pitch to some stranger, eat lunch alone, jog and exercise alone, meet with Coach Singer alone, drill with his teammates alone, drive home alone, eat dinner alone, go to sleep alone.

He wasn’t sure if he should scream in fury or crumple to his knees to weep out his broken heart.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” muttered Jimmy, not turning around.

“I know you are,” Castiel replied sadly. He longed to cross the miles separating them but couldn’t bring himself to do so. Jimmy fussed over the cookies, though everything that might actually need attention was already done – ingredients away, dishes washed, counters clean. “When do you leave?”

“I was thinking right after Christmas,” Jimmy said, poking a cookie with a spatula. “I don’t want to ruin the holidays, but I’ll need time to get a place in Atlanta, and somewhere to stay during spring training, and I’d like the opportunity to get to know my teammates before we start playing together.” _God, they’re also[Grapefruit League](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spring_training#Grapefruit_League)_ _. In two months I’ll be playing against him._ Jimmy turned to face him, expression resolute though his eyes swam with tears, holding a cookie on a spatula.

“That makes sense,” said Castiel, making no attempt to appear energetic or enthusiastic. The cookie was shoved directly under his nose. It smelled great and he hesitantly took a bite. Rich, half-melted chocolate and slightly under-cooked dough flooded his mouth deliciously. “They’re good.”

“Made your favorite,” Jimmy gave him a weak smile. Anger and betrayal still screamed rage through Castiel’s thoughts, but he forced himself to move past it. Simmering was a terrible approach to pitching and a habit that Castiel had worked hard to break. He’d be angry for a long time to come, he was sure, but if they only had a couple weeks left he wouldn’t let how upset he was ruin that any more than he’d let an costly error screw up how he approached the next batter.

_Any more than I let a six run deficit convince me it’s the end of the game? There’s no coming back from this…_

“I don’t want you to go,” Castiel mumbled. Jimmy grimaced, moved the cookie, leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Castiel’s lips.

“It doesn’t have to be the end…” suggested Jimmy hopefully.

“Why don’t we share hotel rooms for away games? Why don’t we get meals just the two of us during the season? Why did we get the house fenced and gated?” Castiel could keep going, listing all the precautions they’d taken over the years to ensure that no one, not teammates or coaches or members of the press or scouts or fans, found out their secret, but his point was made. Jimmy’s face fell. “Maybe it’s for the better.”

“We _are_ kind of codependent.” Jimmy managed a wry smile that didn’t touch his eyes and pressed a second kiss to Castiel’s mouth, sucking on a spot of chocolate that had caught at the corner of his lips. Wrapping an arm around Jimmy’s shoulder, Castiel opened to the kiss, teased at Jimmy’s tongue with his own, slotted their bodies together perfectly. Both had tried to be with other people but it never worked. No one else fit them. No one else matched them. There was nothing like the feeling of Jimmy’s body mirroring his when they drew close. The spatula and cookie clattered to the floor as Jimmy surged against him, embraced Castiel tightly, kissed him with passion, an apology behind every brush of their lips. Instead of calming Castiel further, it enflamed him, reminded him of all the reasons Jimmy _should_ apologize to him.

_He’s abandoning me, leaving me alone, breaking up with me, breaking my heart…_

Failing to suppress a growl at the back of his throat, Castiel snagged Jimmy’s lip between his teeth and bit hard. Jimmy chuckled, tore away and murmured, “Mad at me, Cassie? Gonna punish me?”

“Fuck you, Jimmy,” he snapped, digging into the flesh of Jimmy’s muscular shoulder hard enough that the next day his grip would show in a series of bruises. He wished he could tattoo them into Jimmy’s skin. Wherever Jimmy went, whatever team he played for, it wouldn’t change that his brother belonged with _him_.

“I sure hope so,” huffed Jimmy with another laugh. Jimmy’s husky voice, his fervent kisses, the hard, muscled plains of his lean body, all of them went straight to Castiel’s head, the heat of arousal combining with the heat of anger to drive him wild. There was something to Jimmy’s tone that infuriated Castiel, gave him a sneaking suspicion that Jimmy had planned all along to soothe Castiel’s anger with more than cookies. Steeling his grip on Jimmy’s shoulder, Castiel spun his brother away, forced them apart, twisted Jimmy’s arm behind his back and slammed Jimmy’s chest hard against the kitchen table. “If that’s what you wanted, all you had to do was ask.” Jimmy was _still_ laughing, breathy, as he locked his knees to shove his finely curved ass up and out. And Castiel _did_ want his brother, God help him, wanted him no less for how angry he was, wanted him no less for knowing it would be over soon. He’d wanted to spend the rest of his life with Jimmy, had _always_ wanted there to be no one else, but that was impossible, would always be impossible.

 _It_ is _for the best, it is_.

Castiel held Jimmy down with one arm and used the other to pull Jimmy’s pajama bottoms down. A plug stood out mat black against Jimmy’s pale skin, confirming Castiel’s hunch that Jimmy had anticipated their fight culminating in sex. Castiel’s anger flared hotter, but so did his desire. Achingly hard in his jeans, constrained and uncomfortable, Castiel undid his fly, freed his cock, rubbed it against the cleft of his brother’s ass as Jimmy reached back for him awkwardly. They fit together so well, on the field, in the bedroom, intellectually and physically. Why would Jimmy ruin that? Why would Jimmy take that away?

 _Jimmy doesn’t want_ us _anymore, doesn’t want_ me _anymore…I’m going to make sure he never forgets, though._

Certain it would hurt, _wanting_ it to hurt, Castiel grabbed the base of the plug and ripped it free of Jimmy’s hole to reveal the wetness beneath, the pink stretched pucker. Jimmy gasped, back arching, but Castiel tightened his grip on Jimmy’s arm, used his other hand to grab Jimmy’s neck and press him hard against the table. They’d done this a hundred time, a thousand; Castiel didn’t need a hand to line himself up or to press his cock into his brother’s body. Moaning, Jimmy strained against Castiel’s powerful control, pressed his hips back against the hardness filling him. The familiar pressure of being enveloped by Jimmy’s body felt glorious, felt _normal_ on a day when _nothing_ was fucking normal. His eyes slipped shut, and though he’d hoped the feeling would soothe his spirits, instead it reminded him of how much he wanted this, how soon he’d be losing it. Pressing Jimmy hard against the table, he drew his hips back, snapped them forward, basked in the satisfaction of pleasure and dominance and Jimmy’s strained cry.

They were physically matched normally, similarly strong, similarly dexterous, but Castiel was pissed and couldn’t bring himself to care if he hurt Jimmy, while Jimmy was contrite and willing to surrender to Castiel’s control. He twisted Jimmy’s arm back and filled him hard and fast, reveling in Jimmy’s tightness and his moans. They’d experimented in the past with bondage and domination games; with the emotional cocktail swirling through Castiel’s mind, he wished he had ropes to bind Jimmy’s arms, clamps for his nipples, a ball gag for his mouth, a paddle for his pert ass. Spurred on by the thought of Jimmy crying out, choking on Castiel’s cock, swearing to _never fucking leave_ as long as Castiel would keep taking care of him, Castiel slammed himself into Jimmy’s body relentlessly, a brutal pace from the first stroke, as fast as his hips would pivot. It felt _glorious_ , Jimmy writhing around him, the muscles of Jimmy’s channel clenching and unclenching, moans and broken pleas leaking from his mouth. The pace was exhausting, forcing grunts from Castiel at every stroke, pleasure bursting through him each time.

“Cas,” Jimmy gasped desperately, straining hard against Castiel’s grip. With a guttural snarl, Castiel leaned closer, used his arms and chest to hold Jimmy against the unforgiving wood of the table, and sank his teeth into Jimmy’s shoulder so hard that his brother howled. The new angle let Castiel drive in deeper, made it easier for him to go faster still, short strokes that dragged the tight outer ring of Jimmy’s asshole over the base of Castiel’s cock over and over again.

“Just fucking _shut up_ , Jimmy,” he growled, biting again, nipping again, forcing blood to the surface of Jimmy’s tanned shoulder. “Mine – you’re mine – fuck, why are you leaving? _Dammit_!” Jimmy’s fingers scrambled uselessly at the wood of the table, his breaths quick as Castiel’s hold on him prevented him from getting enough air. Nonetheless, his hips met each stroke, ensured that Castiel stayed buried in his ass, ensured that Castiel hit his prostate over and over. The tension building in Jimmy’s body was unmistakable, tightening him around Castiel, pushing them close to the edge.

“Touch me, please,” the words blurred together as Jimmy forced them out in a rush. “Please, please, please, please, _please_ …”

“No,” snarled Castiel. “You are gonna come…on my fucking _cock_ …or you’re not going to come at all.”

“Cassie!” Castiel pulled out slowly, slammed in as hard as he could. Jimmy fucking _screamed_ , the sound delicious, pushing Castiel to do it again, again, his self-control fading, his climax coming on fast. He felt the exact moment when Jimmy snapped, his hips bucking back, his body clenching tightly around Castiel; Jimmy sobbed bliss against the table, and Castiel heard the splash of come hitting the kitchen floor. It was so deliciously filthy, so carnal, such a visceral demonstration of the pleasure he gave his brother that it pushed him over the edge, and Castiel came, thrusting desperately, crying out wordlessly.

Release drained Castiel of passion, of arousal, of anger, of everything except the pain of knowing that this would be one of the last times they would be together. His knees gave way and he slumped to the floor despite the chill of the tiles. Jimmy slid down beside him, breathing hard, expression dazed, and fell into Castiel’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Cas, I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t go,” Castiel whispered helplessly, unable to bring himself to move even enough to embrace Jimmy and bring him closer. What was the point? They had weeks left, only weeks.

“I’m sorry,” the words poured from Jimmy, repeated as a litany, scarce interrupted by Castiel’s plea. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” Jimmy scrambled to hold him, wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and wept into the side of Castiel’s face and his dark hair. “I’m so sorry. If I’d tried to talk to you about it, I would have stayed, I would have stayed forever, but we _can’t_. I’m sorry. This is going to destroy us if we don’t stop. I’m _sorry_.”

“I love you, Jimmy.” A single tear rolled down Castiel’s cheek and he scooped an arm beneath Jimmy’s ass to pull his brother into his lap. “But I don’t know if I can forgive you for this.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Jimmy whispered. “I’m sorry, Castiel. I love you.”


	2. Chapter 2

The ridiculous futuresque lettering that identified their spring training field as [Space Coast Stadium](http://www.theclio.com/web/ul/13018.22528.jpg) pissed Castiel off, the [model space shuttle](http://www.baseballpilgrimages.com/spring/viera.jpg) out front set his teeth on edge and the prospect of spending the next few weeks in and about the garish, cheap stadium made him angry. To be fair – not that Castiel had much interest in being fair – of late, most things made him angry, especially in light of the previous day, when he’d made the 13 hour drive to [Viera ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Space_Coast_Stadium)alone for the first time. Though the numbers in the weather forecast suggested it was a balmy day, it felt muggy and unpleasant compared to the February chill yet gripping Washington DC. In past years, Castiel had arrived at spring training resolute, cautiously excited for the season to come. This year, he started the season more drained and exhausted than he’d felt at the end of the previous year’s [162 games](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_League_Baseball_schedule).

The past six weeks alone had stunk on ice. All that had gotten Castiel through them was burying himself in prep for the season. He’d read the profiles for every catcher he might work with and followed up with Milton, requesting information for every potential new pitcher that might be added to the team. He’d stepped up his workouts with help from the team trainers, gotten his daily morning run up to six miles, focused on strengthening his pitching arm without building up muscle that might interfere with his[windup](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pitching_position). Unable to alter Jimmy’s decisions, unable to prevent Jimmy’s departure, unable to guess who he’d be pitching to during the 2016 season, he focused on what was in his power to control: his diet, his training, his routine.

Dawn made a black silhouette of the stadium against the pink and blue streaked Florida sky. He was two hours early, but he wanted to have time to warm up without anyone looking over his shoulder, wanted a chance to settle in before the press arrived. The questions had begun before he’d left Washington, interviewers wanting to know how he felt about Jimmy’s trade, how he was preparing during the off season, if he could perform without his brother behind the mound, how he spent his time, if he’d heard about this thing or that thing Jimmy had done – all the usual questions, with the addition of far too many about his brother. Milton had made him sit down with a media coach for hours to prepare to answer calmly and professionally, and Castiel was as ready to answer them today as he had been over the preceding months, but that didn’t mean the insensitive, aggressive intrusion on his personal life didn’t grate.

 _Everything_ grated.

Castiel wasn’t the first to arrive at the stadium, though he was close. A few maintenance men ghosted through the corridors, putting finishing touches on last-minute repair jobs, cleaning the lockers, moving equipment around. Coach Singer’s gruff voice was audible through the closed door of his small office; his words were indistinct, but he sounded like he was giving instructions, mostly likely to whatever support staff he had present to help with the training and preparation of the roughly two dozen pitchers and two dozen catchers who would be reporting that day for the first two weeks of spring training. Some hoped to make the team, some knew they never would, but regardless, by the end of spring training in six weeks, of all those here only five [starting pitchers,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Starting_pitcher) seven[relievers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Relief_pitcher), and two catchers would make the major league roster. Everyone else would be left in the minors or released to seek better fortune on other teams.

Settling into the familiarity of his daily warm up calmed Castiel’s nerves and cleared his head. The uncertainty of not knowing who he would be pitching to was driving him crazy but he couldn’t let himself dwell on it. Until he had a chance to speak with Coach Singer, meet the candidates, and start throwing pitches, there was no way to know.

 _I can’t pitch to anyone except Jimmy_.

He would have to make something work. The team was counting on him. Despite his reputation, Castiel was a team player, he _was_ , and he didn’t only want to burnish his personal statistics. He wanted the Nationals to win. He wanted the team to earn World Series rings.

Castiel hadn’t been at it long when a harried trainer came hurrying out, making apologies that she didn’t know he’d arrived and started without her. As Castiel went through his routine, he briefed her – Harvelle, she said her name was – on how he’d spent the off-season, what his current plans were, and what the expectations were for him in the upcoming season. She nodded sagely and corrected him once or twice, demonstrating that she’d familiarized herself with his file. Soon, she was working with him, helping him balance as he did more advanced stretches, kneading the stiffness from his muscles when he was between stretches, helping prep him for the first real pitches of the season. Time passed quickly as they worked, others trickling in as 9 AM approached. Castiel exchanged brief greetings with those he knew. Most of the previous year’s pitchers were returning, including three of the starters – Fitzgerald and Tran were the other two – and Henriksen was virtually guaranteed his catching spot back. There were many unfamiliar faces as well, young and old; some were hoping to get a break and find a spot on the team, some were past their prime and hoping for one more gasp in the majors, others knew it wasn’t their chance yet but that another year or two in the minors might do it, and there was always the outside opportunity that a fantastic spring training could change destiny and see an unexpected fresh, youthful face make the cut. A few years ago, that had been Castiel and Jimmy, looking at the veterans with awe, unable not to stare as they met for the first time people they’d seen on TV. Now, the youngsters stared at Castiel. Even many of the old-timers did. He was the staff ace, guaranteed opening day starter, and everyone knew about his catching woes.

The early parts of the day passed in warm ups and exercise. Singer came out and gave them a gruff speech that was as close to a pep talk as the man ever got. Milton followed, more brightly, encouraging, reminding them that hard work might gain anyone a shot – and reminding the team regulars not to grow complacent. After lunch, they broke into pairs for throwing practice. Castiel worked with Henriksen. He wasn’t comfortable pitching to the team’s everyday catcher, but at least they knew each other and were well acquainted with each other’s style. There was always something _off_ when Castiel tried to pitch to Henriksen. As many of Castiel’s games as Henriksen had seen, for some reason he didn’t understand Castiel’s pitching style. His glove was always too high, the pitches he called never made sense in the context of the at bat, and his stance was too casual. Henriksen didn’t have any trouble with the other catchers, but he and Castiel were never on the same wavelength. Today was no different. Even throwing soft, Castiel had already gotten two balls past the catcher, and judging by Henriksen’s fixed, dark, tight expression, Castiel wasn’t the only one growing annoyed.

“Take ten, Henriksen,” Bobby interrupted, pausing in making his rounds among his stable. “Novak – let’s talk.” Castiel took a centering breath. He’d known this was coming. It wasn’t a surprise. Singer led him to an isolated vantage point in the edge of the practice field from which they could survey all of the pitchers and catchers working. Wherever he looked, Castiel couldn’t help but analyze what he saw: which pitchers had adequately trained to keep themselves in shape over the winter; which catchers had potential; who had the juice to potentially be a starter; who was already showing the hallmarks of being bullpen bound; who was in trouble on Day 1. “Seen anyone you like?”

“Based on their scouting reports, I thought Gallagher, Weems, Zeddmore, Bass or Lafitte most likely to be a good fit,” Castiel replied. Looking through the gathering, he identified each based on the video he’d watched as part of his scouting.

“Gallagher? Really?” Singer snorted incredulously.

“It would make Milton happy,” shrugged Castiel. The young man wasn’t a great catcher but he’d spent the previous year hitting the cover off the ball in [Double A](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double-A_\(baseball\)) and the team could use that kind of power in[ the lineup](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batting_order_\(baseball\)). “I get the sense Turner likes him, too.” The no-nonsense black man was the team’s[manager](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manager_\(baseball\)). Currently he was standing with [general manager](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_manager_\(baseball\)) Milton on the far end of the field, looking over reports and pointing at various people on the field. As if sensing Castiel’s gaze, both Milton and Turner looked his way and Turner scowled before turning angrily back to his notebook.

“We’ll try him out,” agreed Singer as if he didn’t think there was a chance in hell of it working. “Still, your thinking sounds a lot like mine – Bass and Lafitte are particularly promising, I’d say.”

“Do you think Lafitte can get through a season?” Castiel asked. The journeyman catcher was nearly 36; he had a solid reputation but his best years were behind him and his last two seasons had ended in injuries and surgery. The buzz said he was healed up and ready to go, but the buzz had said that the previous year, and the year before that.

“Only one way to find out,” Singer said. Castiel nodded. “I figure we’ll start you out on the test runs tomorrow: a day with each catcher to see if we can find your soulmate.” Castiel grimaced at Singer’s mocking choice of words. Unlike some [pitching coaches](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coach_\(baseball\)#Pitching_and_bullpen_coaches) he’d worked with, Singer didn’t think Castiel over-proud, but he did think Castiel a diva as regarded his catching choices. “Also, you should know – Uriel’s left the team.”

“You’re joking,” Castiel said flatly. Of course, even the _training_ catcher he was comfortable with had left. Castiel had been doing [bullpen ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bullpen)sessions with Uriel since he reached the majors, all the times when Jimmy needed a break or had a game that Castiel wasn’t in. There was no way Uriel could play in the majors – he was approaching fifty – but as a calming, steadying influence for warm ups and practice, he’d been invaluable over the years. Not any longer, apparently.

_The fucking hits just keep on coming._

“Deal with it, princess,” Singer advised, setting Castiel’s teeth on edge. “I’ve got someone picked out that I think will be a good fit.” Scanning over the players, a few caught Singer looking and met his gaze, but he continued his search until he found the player he sought, squatting in minimal equipment taking pitches from a greenhorn Castiel didn’t recognize. Their eyes met, Singer nodded, and the man rose, holding up a hand to arrest the pitcher. Pulling off his helmet as he trotted over, Castiel was greeted by a tall man, good looking in a rugged way, who must have at least a decade on Castiel. Short brown hair was matted to his head where the helmet had flattened it to his skull and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Hey,” the man said, voice low and raspy. “You ready for me?”

“As we’ll ever be,” Singer agreed. “Novak, this is Dean Winchester.” Castiel frowned. There was something familiar about the last name, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Winchester gave him a smirk and half a shrug, offering a hand, and Castiel took it.

“Castiel Novak,” he supplied unnecessarily. Winchester’s grip was firm, his hands powerful, the lower arms exposed by his t-shirt and chest protector corded with muscle, speckled with freckles, feathered with curled brown hairs and tanned dark by the sun.

“I want you two to get to know each other,” said Singer. “If you can work together, at least we’ll have your pen sessions covered. I don’t care how you do it, but get friendly.”

“Works for me,” Winchester said casually. Already, he rubbed Castiel the wrong way. He was nonchalant, his hold on his glove negligent, and he projected an inappropriately cocky attitude. What did a washed-out catcher with no prospects have to be cocky about? “Wanna pitch?” Winchester continued, cheerfulness incongruous in his deep voice. Scowling, Castiel nodded, grabbed his glove and followed Winchester back onto the playing field.

The moment Winchester’s catchers mask was in place, he was a different man. He dropped into a squat, held his glove ready before him, eyes shadowed and dark as he watched Castiel through the lattice of the face plate. They weren’t calling pitches, weren’t signaling, but Castiel was slow-pitching and his motions telegraphed what was coming. Winchester read every movement expertly and caught every throw, even the ones that went a little haywire, digging one from the dirt, leaping to snag another before it could sail past him towards where another pair were practicing. Surprised at his competence, Castiel focused and pitched in earnest, cranking up the speed on his fastball, using the tricks he’d employ to deceive a hitter in a real at bat, giving no advance warning whether he intended to throw a [fastball](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fastball), [slider](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slider), [changeup ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Changeup)or[slurve](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slurve).

“Your slider is a sitting duck,” called Winchester mockingly as he scooped up a third slider that had curved into the dust. “Maybe hold off on using all your pitches ‘til you’re a bit more ready for the season.”

“You think?” Castiel shouted back, anger rising. Winchester tossed the ball back and Castiel set up for the next pitch, splaying four fingers around it, finding the seams and throwing as hard as he could. His elbow snapped back and forward satisfyingly, the ball left his hand, and Winchester caught it easily, nonchalantly. Castiel threw his fastball again, again, then switched to the slider. Winchester wasn’t fooled for an instant. The changeup didn’t catch him either. Begrudgingly, Castiel was forced to acknowledge that the bastard had one hell of an eye at the plate.

 _Who_ is _this guy?_

The name Winchester was familiar, if only Castiel could place it. As he allowed the rhythm of pitching to take over, he tried to remember where he’d heard it before. No recent players of that name, he didn’t think. Regardless of how competent a catcher Winchester appeared to be, if there’d been a catcher of that name in the majors anytime in the past decade Castiel would have heard of him unless he’d only been up for a handful of games. Winchester wasn’t so old that he would predate that, Castiel thought; the man didn’t look to be in his 40s, not that Castiel was a great judge of such things.

_Gabriel’s partner – his name’s Winchester or something like that right?_

On the one hand, Castiel supposed it was a fairly common name; on the other, it was common for multiple members of a family to be involved in the sport. Two brothers, one an agent, one a player, would make a lot of sense. It’d make even more sense if they had a father or uncle who’d been in the majors. As soon as the Castiel remembered that, it came to him. John Winchester had been one of the greatest catchers of the 80s, a [slugger ](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/slugger)who played a great defensive game as well. He had been behind the plate when Coach Singer was still a player and pitched a [no-hitter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No-hitter) in the [NLCS ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_League_Championship_Series)game 7 that took the Giants to the [World Series](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Series) in 1989. Castiel had watched every scrap of footage he’d been able to find of Singer’s game, and seen plenty of Winchester. He was one hell of a player. Castiel didn’t pay much attention to what happened off the field but rumor was he and Singer had been close friends. While it was possible that Dean Winchester wasn’t a relative of the former All-Star, it was unlikely. Come to think of it, he thought he’d heard Gabriel mention John Winchester as regarded his partner, bragging on the younger Winchester’s behalf.

 _What was his name again? Scott or something, I think._ Gabriel had tried to convince Castiel to have Winchester be his agent, but Castiel had declined. Gabriel had represented him for five years and if Castiel didn’t exactly _trust_ him, he was at least used to him. When he’d met the other fellow – _Sean? Simon?_ – he’d been annoyed by his false smiles and casual manners. The two Winchesters had matching nonchalance, now that he thought about it.

_If whats-his-name was hiding as much competence as this Winchester, I may have made the wrong choice when I didn’t switch agents. Perhaps I should give him another shot. Assuming they’re actually family. It might still be a coincidence._

“What are you _doing_?” Milton, usually calm and self-possessed, interrupted his train of thought and the steady back-and-forth of pitches with a shrill cry that brought him up short. Startled, Castiel casually caught the ball that Winchester threw back to him and quirked his head at her uncertainly. From down field, Winchester stood and lifted his mask up, rested it atop his head and walked a few steps their way. It took Castiel a moment longer to register that nearly everyone was watching them. To a man, the young pitchers stared, awed, more than one jaw agape. “It’s the _first day of spring training_ , are you _trying_ to destroy your elbow? I swear to God, if you end up needing [Tommy John’s surgery ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tommy_John_surgery)mid-season I’m going to remind you of this…”

“I’m fine,” said Castiel. He was better than fine. His arm felt _awesome_ , hot and liquid and powerful. He hadn’t slacked during the off season, he was ready to go. Pitching to Winchester had been effortless, nothing to break the rhythm they built. Not a pitch got by Winchester and he hardly bobbled a ball. _No[pass balls](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Passed_ball) __with him, I bet_. Thinking of how he’d seen John Winchester play during Singer’s no-hitter, he could see a lot of John in the younger Winchester’s playing style. _Except Dean Winchester is a better fielder than his father._

_Why haven’t I heard of him before? How has he not had a career to match John’s, with skills behind the plate like that?_

“Go ice your arm before you tear a ligament,” snarled Milton. “You’re supposed to take it _slow_ , Novak – we need that arm to make it to October. You keep throwing heat like that, you’ll be lucky to last until the All-Star Break. And Winchester?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“He’s got a 40 pitch limit until you hear otherwise – as many warm up throws as he wants, but once he switches to the real thing, I expect you to cut him off, ya hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And the rest of you, get back to work!”

Her command broke the tension. With intrigued murmurs, the other pitchers went back to casually chucking the ball back and forth. Disgruntled, Castiel tugged his mitt off and crossed to Winchester.

“How fast was I throwing?”

Winchester shrugged. “Not sure, we don’t have a gun on the backfields, but I’d guess 95 or 98 miles per hour. More [heat ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball#H)than I usually see, truth to tell – don’t get much of that in Double A, not unless someone is down for a rehab assignment while they’re on the[DL](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disabled_list). How’re you feeling?”

“Good,” said Castiel, rolling his shoulder. Winchester took a few steps towards the club house, paused, looked back and waited for Castiel to join him. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Winchester said, giving Castiel a rough pat on the shoulder as Castiel joined him and they resumed the walk together. “No matter what Milton said, I’m glad you pitched all-out. How am I supposed to be a bullpen catcher for you if I don’t know what you’re capable of?”

“You must have watched footage of me before today,” said Castiel, frowning.

“ ‘Course I did,” Winchester agreed amiably. “Singer’s had me on that for a month, ever since he asked me if I might be interested in tagging along with the Nats for a season. At this point, anything is better than bumming around with whatever team has decided they need to keep me on the books for the [depth chart](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Depth_chart). At least being in the wings guarantees me a job. If you want to give it a go, that is. You don’t like me, I guess I’ll start in Harrisburg.”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Castiel, chill tone belying his actual feelings. He _was_ sure. Pitching to Winchester had been easy. Despite his early irritation at the man, there hadn’t been a moment their entire session when he’d thought _he’s not Jimmy_ , which now that he reflected, was pretty amazing. Maybe he’d been worrying about this too much. Maybe everything would be fine. Either way, at least he had a replacement for Uriel in the bullpen. It was something.

“Well, we can try again tomorrow if you want,” Winchester shrugged, holding the clubhouse door open for Castiel. “If I’m no use to you, that’s cool. My job is to help you be the best you can be every five days, so if I can’t do that there’s no point in my sticking around.”

“You’re sure you’ll be in the minors if you’re not in the bullpen?” Castiel asked. “Why not in the majors?”

“Generally speaking, in the majors they expect you to hit the ball,” said Winchester wryly. “And I don’t mean foul tips.”

“Ready for your cool down?” a bright voice interrupted their conversation, Harvelle waving and approaching. Castiel nodded, Harvelle put a possessive hand around his arm and steered him towards a training space. Winchester smiled, waved and headed towards the lockers. Castiel flushed as he realized he was staring at the man’s fine backside as the door closed behind him.

 _Well, there will be plenty of time to get to know him over the year to come_.

* * *

The two weeks that followed were easily the worst of Castiel’s career.

If Gallagher allowed one more pass ball, Castiel was going to fucking _kill him_. Ansem Weems, Gallagher’s twin brother, was fine at fielding but showed up without bothering to have familiarized himself with what pitches Castiel used, much less with any idea how Castiel and Jimmy usually called a game. Lafitte was fine as long as he was squatting behind the mound but the instant he had to stand up it was obvious his knees were shot, and the tightness around Laffite’s eyes showed the painful toll that playing was taking on him physically. There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with Zeddmore, but there wasn’t anything particularly right about him either, and his tendency to wear the same dopey smile regardless of whether he’d caught the ball or dropped it or taken a blow to the nuts made Castiel want to strangle him. Of them all, Bass had the best grasp on Castiel’s standard game plan, but watching him take batting practice was pitiful. For someone who had an excellent sense of where the ball was over the plate when catching, he was complete rubbish at understanding the same when hitting.

By the time the rest of the team reported for spring training at the end of February, Castiel woke up every morning with a tight knot of stress in his chest, went to sleep far too late as his thoughts refused to stop circling, and Harvelle had taken to lamenting the tension in his back when she gave him massages during his cool down sessions.

 _Gallagher isn’t Jimmy. Weems isn’t Jimmy. Bass isn’t Jimmy. None of these assholes are Jimmy. Not even Winchester is Jimmy_. _What am I going to do? I’m going to have the worst opening day in Nationals history._

Thank fucking _God_ for Dean Winchester.

The only part of his day that didn’t suck was his warm up. There was no pressure on him when he was working with Winchester, no expectations, no need for Castiel to act like everything was okay, no need for Winchester to put on a show to impress him. True to Milton’s instructions, they kept Castiel on a low pitch count so he wouldn’t fatigue is arm; Castiel had played more intense games of catch when he was 10 than he now played with Winchester every morning. Stepping into the bullpen to do his practice pitches was easy; stepping on to the mound to throw actual pitches was a fucking _nightmare_. Singer and Turner watched it all impassively, making notes while keeping their opinion to themselves, eyes narrowed as they observed everything. Even as bad as things were – and they were _bad_ , Castiel was well able to recognize that if he were pitching better, the candidates wouldn’t look so dreadfully bad – they would withhold judgement until the first actual spring training games. Live ball against actual opponents would be the real test of any potential partnership. They needed to see how the catchers called an actual game, even if Castiel would only be out there for 30 or 40 pitches to begin with. He wasn’t slated to pitch until their third spring training game, scheduled for March 3rd against the Marlins. It wasn’t a “real” opening day, but if he performed poorly, the media would be all over him and he’d immediately start facing more questions about Jimmy. Those few journalists bothering to follow spring training, writing articles read only by the most hardcore fans, had already been at him. _Do you think playing without your brother is impacting your performance? Which of the catchers you’ve been practicing with are closest to James’ style? Have you heard how James is doing with Atlanta?_ Keeping his expression neutral and his answers calm was nearly as stressful as trying to pitch to fucking Andrew Gallagher without deliberately aiming for the asshole’s smug face.

Castiel _dreaded_ March 3 rd.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Rubbing his temples, Dean lay back on the scratchy, ancient sofa, shifting as chill metal dug uncomfortably into his back. The spring training hierarchy was clear in the accommodations arranged for the members of the team. The team had rooms in several hotels around the area; the best rooms to the best players and on down the list, which was surely how Dean had ended up in a threadbare motel room walking distance from the stadium. It was better than many rooms he’d stayed in; though everything was worn or chipped or stained, it all worked. The TV had cable, the fridge kept food cold, the oven could bake pie, and the bed was comfortable enough for him to sleep on. After some of the places he’d spent entire seasons, towns all over the country whose only common feature was that all hosted a [Single A](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minor_League_Baseball#Class_A-Advanced), Double A or [Triple A](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triple-A_\(baseball\)) team on which Dean had played, this place was practically paradise. He bit back a bitter laugh as the phone clicked and his brother’s bright voice said, “Hey, Dean!”

“Heya, Sammy,” said Dean. “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah, things are great here,” Sam said. “How about with you?”

“Not bad,” Dean said thoughtfully.

“Woah, really?” Sam sounded shocked. Dean grimaced. “That’s…that’s _awesome_ , Dean.”

“Fuck, Sam, how would you react if I said things were going _well_?” mocked Dean.

“Dude, I’ve listened to you every pre-season for a decade plus. _Not bad_ is fricken _stellar_ ,” Sam countered. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, I’ll be going with the team,” said Dean, trying to keep a hold on the genuine warm glow of happiness in his breast. A job in the bullpen might not sound like much, but at his age, after so many years in the minors, it was as close to making an opening day roster as he’d ever come. It was a steady gig with good pay, no getting jerked around or pulled up to the majors for a day or a week only to be sent back down, no hunting around for any team willing to take him, no having to move four times in one summer. As long as Novak had use for him, he was set. Heck, even if something happened to Novak, he might still be set. For a few hours on his knees every night, he’d have some actual fucking stability for the first time since he’d gotten signed at 18, and if his math was right and nothing went wrong, he’d also end the season in the green fiscally for the first time since his father died, free of the cloud of debt that John had left behind. It was a fucking dream come true.

_And that’s why I can’t let it go to my head._

He couldn’t let himself feel too good about it, couldn’t let himself get his hopes too far up. Shit _always_ went wrong just when he thought it was going to come together. There were more sources of potential disaster than he could count, but three stood out.

“Bobby’s got everything set up,” he continued when Sammy didn’t comment. “I’ll be working warm up for the starters and the relievers.”

Dean’s knees and hips might give out, as they had last season.

“Oh,” said Sam, less excited. “That could be pretty intense, right? Like, four or five hours a day?”

So far, his joints hadn’t troubled him this spring, suggesting the efforts he’d made to take it easy and strengthen the surrounding muscles over the off-season had paid off. He’d thought the same thing last season, though, only to spend half of it playing through pain and stiffness so severe he had trouble getting out of bed some days. The only thing that had kept him from begging out of his contract was that if he didn’t play, he was unemployed. If he wasn’t a baseball player, he had no fucking clue what he was.

 “Yeah, Bobby’s got me seeing a doctor about getting a fancy-ass brace for my right knee,” said Dean.

Even if his body didn’t break down, there was the non-zero chance that Castiel Novak would decide he was done with Dean. Based on his behavior, Dean had no fricken _clue_ why the young pitcher wanted to work with him. If Novak decided to turn his glowering looks into harsh words, even Bobby might not be able to protect Dean’s new job. Theoretically, Dean was there to work with all of the pitchers, but Novak was the priority and everyone knew it.

“That should help,” Sam managed to imbue his tone with some of its original enthusiasm, an effort that Dean appreciated. He had to believe that this would work. “So, you gonna get a place in Washington?”

 “I’m gonna crash on Jo’s couch for home games,” he replied.

“Jo’s with the team?” asked Sam, surprised.

“Yeah, she’s one of their trainers.”

“So, you’re on a team with Singer, Turner, Adam _and_ Jo?” Sam laughed. “Small world. Ellen hanging out somewhere too? Maybe Kate?”

“Nope, couldn’t get that many of us idiots in one place unless you planned it.” Dean shook his head. “Jo’s still not over being barred from MLB.”

“I offered to represent her, if she wanted to take a stab at it,” Sam said pensively. “But she decided not to. I think Ellen had a say in that, pushed her to stay with softball instead.”

“She’d make a better first baseman than Walker,” snorted Dean.

“He’s got a reputation for being an asshole…”

“He’s a _monumental_ asshole,” Dean rolled his eyes. “He fucking calls me batboy while smiling suggestively, has half the young idiots wondering what he means – the others are pretty sure they know, and more than one is giving me a wide berth as if they think I’m gonna jump their ugly-ass bones or something.”

Even if his body didn’t give way, even if Novak’s casual disdain didn’t lead to his dismissal, if the press overheard the slightest whisper of Dean’s sexual orientation he was screwed. There was exactly one openly gay player in MLB, some 20 year old in Wisconsin who probably only came out to forward his lack-luster prospects. Generally, locker rooms protected their own regardless of orientation, but Dean wasn’t quite a player. There was no reason to think that the wall of silence that usually kept such things hush-hush would protect him, and even _less_ reason to think that anyone from management would go to bat for him if he was in the unfortunate position of causing a scandal that could distract the team from playing well on the field. The Nationals had a real chance at the World Series this season, with some luck, and in comparison to a chance to take it all, Dean’s privacy wasn’t worth shit. If he was shoved out of the closet, his career, such as it was, would be over.

_And then what would I do?_

“He can’t prove anything,” Sam pointed out.

_I just need to get through this season. I just need this year. Then, at least I can go forward with a blank slate._

“Who gives a shit about proof? You know how the media is,” Dean snorted, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, don’t dwell on it,” said Sam. “Even Walker can’t be _that_ big an asshole, and as long as you keep your head down everything should be fine.”

“Yeah…yeah, sure,” Dean sighed. The glimmer of happy hope that had sparked earlier in their chat was thoroughly quenched. It was going to be a long season, but it should still be better than anything else he’d had in years. “Tell me about LA. You still dating your boss?”

“Something like that,” Sam evaded.

“What, he fire you? Dump you over a conflict of interest? Leave you for his secretary?” Dean laughed. It still weirded him out that Sam was dating Gabe Coleman, but he’d spent the winter in California with them and he couldn’t deny that somehow, despite their age difference, despite Sam never dating a guy before, despite Coleman’s fucking split personality – ruthless in negotiation, fucking ridiculous the rest of the time – the two _worked_ together. Fuck, Dean even kind of _liked_ Gabe, which was more than he could say for anyone else that Sam had dated.

“He, uh…” Sam trailed off.

“Holy shit…Sammy, you’re _blushing_ aren’t you,” Dean laughed harder.

“I am _not_ ,” snapped Sam.

“Fuck, you _are_ , you _so_ are – you little bitch – what, did that asshole propose to you or something?” Dean pulled out the most outlandish thing he could think of and was met with stunned silence. “Wait, what? Really? And you said _yes_?”

“So, uh, will you be my best man?” Sam asked sheepishly.

“Seriously, Sammy?”

“Who else would I ask?”

“Uh…wow…shit.” Dean sat up, raking a hand through his hair. Well, there was one Winchester out of the closet. “Are you sure, Sam? About any of this? I mean, he’s sort of a—”

“Can’t you just be happy for me, jerk?” interrupted Sam.

Dean nodded and realized belatedly that there was no way Sam could see him. “Sure. Yeah. Congrats, bro. That’s great news. And of course I’ll be your best man. You’re getting a bachelor’s party like you wouldn’t fuckin’ _believe_.”

“We’re thinking late next fall, after the season ends, before contract stuff starts getting crazy,” said Sam. “Anyway, I should go.”

“Sam…”

“Yeah?”

“It really is awesome,” he said with more sincerity. “If Gabe makes you happy…then that’s awesome.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam replied gratefully. “You take care of yourself, okay?”

“Night, Sam.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

* * *

It wasn’t even opening day yet and the season was off to a _great_ start.

The rhythm of spring training wasn’t radically different from that of the regular season, at least not in the bullpen where Dean was working. He got to the park early, stretched and loosened himself up and got his catcher’s gear on so he’d be ready when Novak was ready to start throwing pitches. During spring training, Novak threw every day, whereas come the year he’d take a day or two off after each of his starts; during spring training, Dean was working almost exclusively with Novak, with the expectation that he’d be more generally of use to the pitching staff during the regular season. For now, he might as well have been tethered to the young pitcher.

The Nationals were a week into spring training games, playing against the other teams in the Grapefruit league – all those who had their training stadiums in central Florida. Dean had been to the field for Novak’s first start, so he’d seen first-hand what a fricken disaster it was. Novak had pitched to Gallagher for two innings and Henriksen for two. Gallagher had behaved like he’d never caught a game in his damn life, for all that he hit a homerun his first at bat, and, depressingly, Novak had matched Gallagher for incompetence. The Marlins had [batted around their order](http://m.mlb.com/cutfour/2015/04/21/119598140/poll-does-batting-around-mean-9-batters-or-10) in the first inning. Henriksen calmed Novak down but the improvement was marginal. With the amount of footage Dean had watched of Novak, he recognized the tension around Novak’s eyes, the stiffness of his release. His self-control was rigid that he couldn’t ease into the pitches as he needed to in order to be effective.

The final score for the game was twelve to three, and Gallagher was responsible for two of their runs.

Novak didn’t pitch the next day and should have taken a day to rest, but instead he was at the stadium bright and early. When Dean wasn’t ready for him, Novak chewed him out, _how dare you keep me waiting, you’re only here to help me, if you’re not able to do that we’ll find someone who will_. Dean took it all with a smile and an endless litany that he _needed this fucking job_ and the two hundred thousand dollar salary that Milton had offered him to stick it out for the season. With John’s unsettled debts hanging over his head and the crap-tastic salaries he’d earned throughout his career – $10,000 for the season if he was extremely lucky, no pay at all in the off-season unless he went south and played [winterball ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winterball)– it was a payoff he couldn’t afford to lose. After so many years dealing with pitchers, he didn’t find it too difficult to keep his cool. Novak wasn’t the worst prima donna pain in the ass Dean had worked with. At least when Dean kept his cool and smiled and went about business as usual, it calmed Novak down. He still threw high heat, as fast as if he were on the mound, but once he’d worked up a sweat he switched to the kind of loose, easy throws that had made him one of the most effective pitchers in the game the year before. Heck, when Novak forgot to be an ass, working with him was fun.

“By the way,” Dean said hesitantly as Novak removed his glove, wiped his forehead on his arm, and turned to head back to the clubhouse. The lean young man froze, half-glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes hard and cold. “So, you know that Singer had me watch pretty much every game you’ve ever pitched over the winter?” Novak gave a single sharp nod. “I watched the game on Thursday and, well, if you wanted, I noticed a couple things you could try changing up.”

“Have you run a alteration in game plan by Singer?” Novak asked, tone quelling.

Dean shrugged. “Nope. But I figure, his approval is less important than yours. If you go to him with something that works, I doubt he’ll say no.”

“Walk with me,” said Novak, starting the walk across the field. Dean sprang up, a twinge in his hip causing him to bobble the first step, and followed after. Trailing in Novak’s wake, he waited for Novak to say something further, but he was silent, his steps aggressive and quick.

 _Well, I guess a suggestion that I follow him is as much of an invitation as I’m going to get. No wonder his brother left. What an asshole_.

“You’re used to pitching to James Novak—”

“Jimmy,” Novak corrected harshly.

“Right, you’re used to pitching to Novak,” Dean repeated, undeterred by Novak’s bullshit attitude. “He’s your height, he always holds his mitt in the same position, and you’re used to the steady placement he sets for you. I’ve been deliberately emulating that. I think it’s part of why you’re more comfortable pitching to me. Gallagher, well, Gallagher ain’t Jimmy Novak and it’s throwing you off. Further, even if he did give you an easy target like your brother did, he’s shorter and he squats lower. Henriksen is a bit closer to what you’re used to but he also does this thing where he moves just before you release. Your eye tracks it and it distracts you every time. If you want to work with either of them, you’ll want to talk to them about those things – or adjust how you pitch.”

There was a long pause as Novak opened the clubhouse door and held it for Dean to step through, then proceeded down the white-washed hallway, pocked stone appearing dull gray after the brightness of the Florida afternoon.

“Have you any observations about the others?” Novak asked at length.

“Weems is a waste of your time,” Dean shrugged, “but I think you knew that already. Lafitte is awesome, an old friend of mine, but I’m not sure his style matches yours.” _I don’t think his knees will last a week, much less a season, stubborn bastard. ‘Course I’m not much different, probably why we get along so well_. “Bass is your man, if you can get the club to agree to take him even knowing he’s pretty much a guaranteed out every time he’s at the plate. Given what they’re trying to build here – given that they were willing to get rid of Novak, who was the same song, different verse, in playing style – they won’t like that one bit. But it’s still worth a try, if the goal is to pick the catcher with whom you’re most comfortable.”

They walked down the remainder of the hallway in silence and turned down the connecting corridor that led to the weight room, where presumably Novak would be working with Jo for the rest of the afternoon. Dean wasn’t sure why he continued to follow in the younger man’s wake, but he did so – curious to see if Novak might yet grace him with a word of wisdom or two. In the time they worked together, Novak had been closed lipped, interested in talking the craft a little but otherwise loathe to engage in personal conversation, and had shown no interest in soliciting Dean’s opinion.

_But I have to go and be the idiot to offer it anyway. Shoulda gone to Bobby and told him what I thought and let him handle the fucking diva talent who think they’re too good to take advice from the back up bullpen catcher, shoulda—_

“Thank you,” Novak said abruptly, turning into the exercise room. His eyes caught a glimmer of light and gleamed blue. For an instant, instead of the aloof, pompous jerk Novak so often appeared to be, Dean saw a vulnerable young man. Novak had come to fame and renown and the public eye as early as Dean once did, and watching him now Dean saw familiar confusion and uncertainty and nervousness, a young man doing his damnedest to appear strong and confident, to project the image that everyone expected from a team ace, an opening day starter, and one of the best pitchers in the league. Bemused, Dean stared as the door closed behind Novak.

_…he’s not that bad, really._

Feeling more comfortable about his work with the pitcher than he had any time in the past three weeks, Dean went to speak with Singer. In many a similar situation, Dean would have felt awkward, would have thought he should keep his mouth shut, but he’d known Singer for as long as he could remember – fuck, the man had been a second father to him when his father and Bobby had both been on the Giants – and he knew that if Singer wanted him to stuff it, he’d have no qualms about saying so. Their close relationship was the only reason Dean was getting this shot. He knew that, knew he should keep his head down, but for no reason he could put his finger on, he wanted to see the team do well. He wasn’t actually _on_ the team, but nonetheless he felt that if they succeeded, it’d be like he’d finally succeeded. With that in mind, he laid out for Singer what he’d explained to Novak.

“…so, do you think you can convince them to give Bass a shot?” Dean concluded. Singer watched him intently, expression not betraying his opinion.

“Can’t hurt to try,” answered Singer at length, shrugging. “Milton’s priority is the same as the owner’s priority: the team winning 90 games plus. If we can convince them that Bass’ shitty hitting will cost fewer games than Novak’s good pitching will win, then it’s simple mathematics. What’s your assessment of Novak?”

“About as full of himself as most young up-and-comers who’ve been told since they were 12 that they were the next big thing,” Dean said. “Unlike most of those, I think he’s got the stuff to back it up. When he forgets who he’s pitching to, he’s light’s out. It’s hard to tell this early in spring training but if the rest of the team backs him up, he could win 20 games.”

“Never seen you as one to indulge in delusional optimism,” Bobby snorted.

“Come on, you know me better than that,” Dean said.

“So you really think that?”

“I really think that.”

“And when have you seen him ‘forget who he’s pitching to?’” asked Bobby. There was something overly casual to the words, something in the way Bobby shifted his gaze to the papers on his desk, picking up a pile, straightening, and setting it aside. Dean had no fucking clue what that _something_ was, but Bobby had a plan.

“Once or twice while warming up with Henriksen,” said Dean. “But Henriksen fricken hates him, I think, so it’s not a great match. With Lafitte, a handful of times, but – and you know I love Benny – he’s done. And I really think Novak could get there with Bass.”

“No one else?” asked Bobby, that same shrewd _something_ evident in his tone.

“What, I’ve seen him with some of the minor leaguers – none of them are ready for the majors,” Dean scoffed. “I figured you only put them together so that the squirts could see what a 98 mile per hour fastball looks like. Scared the pants off most of them, too.”

“Right,” Bobby muttered. “Well, thanks, Dean. You know I appreciate your input on this, right? You’re the most experienced catcher we’ve got at this camp and you’ve always had a good eye. Still don’t get why you don’t retire and become a scout.”

_Because I’m not smart enough for talent evaluation, because I look at a page of Sabermetrics_ _and my head fucking spins, because I’m not worth a flying fuck if I can’t play, because Lafitte mighta gotten started a couple years later but he’s played a decade and a thousand games in the majors while I’ve played, what, fifty? Because…_

Dean shrugged and didn’t attempt to find a response to Bobby’s words.

“Alright, then – you keep doin’ what you’re doin’ boy,” said Bobby gruffly. “Keep an eye on Novak, and on the other pitchers, too – wouldn’t mind knowing your thoughts on them. We got two slots in the rotation we need to fill and five guys to fill ‘um.” Recognizing the dismissal, Dean rose and headed to the door. “Oh, and Dean?” He froze, looking back over his shoulder. “We’ve got a [split squad](http://phoenix.about.com/od/springtrainingbaseball/qt/Split-Squad.htm) game in a couple days and I’m sending you along with the B team. Not to catch the bullpen. To play.”

“ _What_?” Dean squawked, rounding on Bobby. “ _Hell_ no. What the fuck, Bobby? There are fricken 20 catchers in camp, you don’t need my ass warming a bench!”

“You wanna go argue with Turner about it, be my guest,” said Bobby indifferently. “Come see me after, I’ll get you an ice pack for the second asshole he tears you.”

“Fuckin’…fine,” snapped Dean, jerking the door open and slamming it behind him. Stupid ass waste of everybody’s time to have Dean in a hitting lineup. No one wanted to watch him actually _play baseball_. No one had wanted that when he was fit as a fiddle and in his prime, much less now that he was 37 and filled out the waist-band of his pants too well.

_It’s only one game. It’ll only be a few innings. I’ll do my shit, show Turner he’s wasting his time, and get back to my usual gig. It’s the B Sides anyway, no one will be paying any fucking attention._

* * *

The days of camp went quickly, blurring together in endless warm ups and exercise routines and drills and cool downs on identically flawless days of dazzling blue skies and green grass. Times like this, Dean could understand why people might want to live in Florida. The weather was spectacular, the crowds coming to the spring training games were enthusiastic, and Novak finally began to calm down. The stakes had never been lower as the Nationals B Squad played against the Mets starting rotation. Everyone expected the Nationals to be shelled and demolished, and that was exactly what happened, but it was good experience for the youngsters who’d been sent to [Port Saint Lucie](http://newyork.mets.mlb.com/spring_training/ballpark.jsp?c_id=nym) to see what a major league team actually looked like. Some of these kids would see time in the bigs over the next few years; every time they played against pros helped ensure that when the moment came that their play actually _counted_ , they’d be less intimidated. Dean felt like the fucking team grandpa tagging along. The biggest wonder was that he actually got a hit, a line drive down the middle off the previous year’s rookie of the year, the ball sailing over the glove of the leaping second baseman. Amazing what Dean could accomplish when the results didn’t fucking matter. Even got himself a [rib-eye steak](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Run_batted_in); he celebrated that night with an actual steak and a few too many drinks.

Next day was Novak’s second training start. Either because Turner and Singer listened to Dean’s advice or because they had fucking _eyes_ and had seen what was obvious to anyone paying the least fucking attention, they played Bass. Novak started tense, getting away with a series of strikes over the plate only because the Tigers hitters were so far behind his pitches that it was pitiful to watch. Their pitching wasn’t fairing much better; the Nationals scored 2 in the first inning, 1 in the second, and then absolutely _shelled_ the opposing pitcher in the top of the third. As the length of the inning stretched out with no sign that the Tigers would get an out, much less three, Singer got Novak up in the bullpen to throw some pitches to keep him loose. The contrast between how Novak pitched to Bass and how he pitched casually to Dean brought Dean an unwarranted flush of pride.

“Think they’ll send you back out after this?” Dean called as he chucked the ball back to Novak. He got an undecipherable grunt in reply as Novak threw a gentle [two-seamer ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fastball#Two-seam_fastball)back. Shrugging, Dean settled back on his heels and squared for the next pitch. Times like this were Dean’s favorite part of catching. When he was paired with a good pitcher, he felt both the glow of his own success and theirs. Some guys had little potential, some guys were always goofing off, some guys were so certain they were the shit when they were alright, or mediocre. Novak might be an arrogant bastard sometimes, but he was an excellent pitcher and he worked his fucking _ass_ off. Dean respected the fuck out of that. If Novak had a good season, if Dean was able to work through the year with him, some of that success would reflect on Dean even if he would never get to wear a[ring](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Series_ring).

“Wrap it up,” snapped Singer, sticking his head into the bullpen just as Novak started his windup. “We’ve got Fitzgerald warmed up, he’ll take over for the bottom of the third.”

“But—” Singer cut off Novak’s protest with a harsh glare, earning a silent scowl from the pitcher.

“Come on, Bobby, let the kid go back out, he’s fine,” said Dean good-naturedly. A glare joined the scowl on Novak’s face as he turned to stare down Dean.

“You two can finish your bullpen session, but it’s been half an hour and there’s still only one out,” Singer said. “We’re not risking Novak’s arm for this kind of shit.”

“If you say so,” Dean shook his head. “Come on, Novak, let’s throw a mock third inning and then call it a day.”

“Fine,” said Novak coldly.

“Lineup says we’ve got Romine, Gose and Davis up,” Dean called as Novak circled the worn bullpen mound, scuffing the dirt with his cleats. “Let’s pitch it like we mean it, okay?”

Dean had reviewed video of the Tigers before the game and it wasn’t difficult to come up with a game plan for getting the three players out, even if it was all make believe. Meeting Novak’s eyes across 60 feet, he put one finger down and to the side, indicating he wanted a fastball on the lower left of the strike zone. Novak gave a slight nod and fucking _transformed_. Novak and Dean had thrown some mock innings over the past weeks, but they’d never done a session where they treated it like a serious game. Novak’s concentration was intense normally, but it was nothing to how he looked and acted when he was pitching to a “real” batter. Dean had noted the difference on video but it was night and day when he was on the receiving end of that intensity. Dark eyes stared out hard from beneath his cap, his lips were fixed in a tight line, his glove held up before his chest, his right hand circling the ball as he expertly found the seams, drew back, and let loose.

“Strike one,” bellowed Singer.

Dean had been so absorbed by Novak’s intensity that he hadn’t even noticed the pitching coach taking up a position behind Dean so he could pretend to be the umpire for their fake third inning. Dean signaled the next pitch – fast ball [down and away](http://www.humankinetics.com/excerpts/excerpts/locating-pitches-in-baseball) – strike two. Having set up their make-believe Romine to expect a 98 mile per hour pitch in the strike zone, his eye would never catch up to something slow, but he’d also never expect them to risk a third fastball, so Dean called it, and Singer called the first out. Caught up in things, Dean imagined the Tigers’ shortstop huffing in annoyance and striding away as Gose came to the plate. A different strategy would be needed for the more patient player, and it took six mock-pitches before Singer conceded that the man would hit into a pop-up. Davis managed a hit – or so Singer said – and then Kinsler hit into a double play off a curve ball that came straight in like a fastball only to fuck plummet just before the plate. That pitch was a thing of beauty. _If I’d come to the majors with a pitcher like him fifteen years ago, how different might my career have been?_ Dean could imagine the roar of the crowd as the Nationals walked off the field, as loud as if it were real. _It is real, the Nats must have gotten another hit. They’re not cheering us, they’re cheering the actual players. They might be cheering Novak, if they could see him._

“Now, you two call it a day,” Singer interrupted Dean’s thoughts. Novak nodded, dropping the ball; Dean rose, his knee aching enough to remind him of how far he was from really being able to do anything like what they’d just pretended to do. “Novak – I know you’ve been putting in extra sessions. And Winchester – I know you’ve been letting him. Knock it off, you two. Novak’s got tomorrow off, end of discussion. If you’re smart, you’ll take 24 hours too, Dean.”

“Whatever,” Dean replied gruffly. “Come on, Novak, we know when we’re not wanted.”

“Speak for yourself,” answered Novak, unamused. _Man, he must be a ton of fun at parties_.

“Quit it, you idiots, this team needs both of you.” There was a hint of affection in Singer’s words and he clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Now, git.” Singer gave Dean a shove towards the club house, and, laughing, he started that way, tugging his glove off and tucking it under his arm. Novak followed in his wake, stiff backed, expression still intense as if he was deep in thought.

“So, day off!” Dean said conversationally. “Got a plan?”

“Opening day is against the Braves,” Novak replied. “I thought I’d do some preparation for that, since it will be my first game of the season.” Lengthening his stride, Novak overtook Dean and passed him, walking quickly towards the club house. _Wow, and now he doesn’t even want to fucking talk to me. Fricken typical. Whenever I think maybe he’s not such an asshole, he pulls shit like this._

“And your first game against your brother,” Dean called after, pretending he didn’t think he was dropping a fricken bomb on the jerk. He couldn’t resist, and his jab was amply rewarded. Novak froze, back stiff, and he slowly turned to look at Dean over his shoulder, watched Dean walk past him, his eyes catching the light gleam so coldly that a shiver went down Dean’s spine despite the heat of the day. There’d always seemed to be something mechanical about Novak. His adherence to his routine, his stiff windup, everything made him seem almost robotic in the execution of his responsibilities. There was nothing passionless in the look he gave Dean, though. He looked furious, and maybe a little hurt. _Another glimpse of the overwhelmed, lonely young man I saw after he got shelled that first start. Poor guy. I shouldn’t rile him up._

“Hey, man, forget I said anything, that was a jerk move on my part,” said Dean apologetically. Novak’s eyes narrowed and he didn’t answer; instead, he yanked his hat off, shoved it in his glove, shoved both under his arm, and with long-legged strides he walked away, leaving Dean standing alone on the backfields. Dean sighed.

 _Way to go, Winchester. Novak deciding he hates my fucking guts is about the only way that I can still blow this shit. It’s not too late for Singer to leave me in the minors. My contract isn’t set in stone, there are about a dozen clauses that’ll let them demote me. Sure, he’s an asshole, but all I gotta do is keep smiling. What’s it to me if he’s self-centered and rude? I have one job: catch the fucking ball_.

* * *

Dean’s day off was singularly unremarkable. He saw the doc about his knee brace, did a boring, basic workout to keep himself loose and prepared for the season, spent several hours reading scouting reports and watching video to be sure he was prepared for the upcoming games. With the evening wide open, he considered going out to a bar, maybe getting a drink and picking someone up, but he thought better of it and stayed in. Nothing classier than sitting on his ass in his shitty room drinking beer alone and watching TV. At some point, this had become his life when he wasn’t working. Maybe it had happened after his father had died, maybe it’d happened when he’d decided to cut back on his drinking, maybe it’d happened when he’d decided fucking women wasn’t worth it considering how little pleasure it gave him and picking up random men was too dangerous to risk, maybe it had happened when he’d had the first surgery on his hip. He wasn’t sure, but he’d never felt older and more useless than he did flipping through the channels looking for something worth sitting through. Finally, he settled on a cooking show and he ended up going to bed at 9 like the old, boring fart he’d somehow grown up to be.

_If I can’t play, this is what life will be like every. damn. day._

_Just fucking kill me now._

Fortunately, things were back to normal the next day. He got to the field early, met up with Novak – who apparently had forgiven him, he was back to his usual taciturn, quiet, professional self – and spent the first few hours of the day working out and warming up. When Novak was pulled away to work with the other starters and Jo, Dean went to check the lineup for Novak’s start so he could see who’d be catching for him next. The lineups for the week were posted on a billboard in the hall; when he’d last checked, Novak’s next game hadn’t been up yet. It was slated for the next day, Saturday the 12th, and was going to be the Nats’ first game against the Braves. Probably Lafitte starting, Dean figured, since Singer and Turner had already tried out Bass and Gallagher. He doubted they’d even bother testing Novak with Weems or Zeddmore; both had been shit in practice with Novak and underwhelming in their first spring training starts with other pitchers, Weems opposite Tran, Zeddmore with some kid whose name Dean couldn’t remember. No one else was around when Dean got to the board, and he scanned the lists, eying both the Nationals players and the projected starters for the Braves. Castiel Novak was the starting pitcher for the Nats, James – no, Jimmy – Novak would be the starting catcher for the Braves, and the starting catcher for the Nationals...

...it had to be mistake, or a typo, or a huge fucking mix up. There was no way that anyone in their right mind would start Dean in a game that was about as high-profile as a spring training game got. Yet, not only was his name on the roster, it was _also_ on the batting lineup – there he was, batting seventh, after the left fielder Collins and before his half-brother Adam Milligan, who played center field.

“What the _fuck_?” he exclaimed aloud, unable to stop himself. He grabbed the sheet and tore it down, making the short trip to Singer’s office in ground-eating strides. Slamming the door open, Dean took in Singer sitting calmly at his desk, Turner leaning over a binder open to colorful [spray chart](http://www.qcbaseball.com/coaching/baseball-charting.aspx). “What the fuck, Bobby?”

“Mornin’ to you too, boy,” said Bobby, staring him down. “You want to talk to me, you can wait til I’m done with Turner.”

“Fuck that,” snarled Dean, holding out the crumpled paper. “What is this bullshit?” They both looked at him blankly. “ _You’re starting me_? Who in the fucking _universe_ thought _that_ was a good idea?”

“I did,” Bobby said.

“I agreed,” Turner added, giving Dean a look that normally would have cowed him but now made him want to punch the asshole of a manager.

“ _Why_?”

“I’ve been watching you this spring,” Singer said. “Your start against the Mets went pretty well. You and Novak get on together. Nothing is guaranteed – we’re gonna have a hell of a time convincing Milton unless you play your fuckin’ heart out – but you’re not a worse bet than some of those other dipshits we’ve been running out there, and you’re smarter and more experienced.”

“But—”

“Save your breath, boy, we’re not changing the lineup,” Turner interrupted. “Now get the fuck out of here, we’ve got work to do.”

“You fucking—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Singer cut in. “This is your shot, but if you assault one of us you’ll blow it. Go cool your head. We can talk about this more later if it’s still bothering you. Get out.”

Too angry to come up with anything to say, but not so gone that he didn’t recognize the truth of Singer’s words, he threw the balled up page at the wall, grabbed the doorknob and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he yelled, relishing the way his voice echoed down the hall.

_I can’t do this, it’s fucking impossible, they have to be the two stupidest old jackasses in the business. What the fuck are they thinking? Damn right they’ll never convince Milton, she’s not a nostalgic has-been like those two are._

Since the time Dean was ten and started catching regularly, it had felt like fucking _everyone_ from the lowest ball boy up to the fucking [Commissioner ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commissioner_of_Baseball)looked at Dean and saw his father. Of all the people he’d ever known, Dean had always dared hope that at least Bobby saw them differently. Turner was one thing, Turner he’d known a long time but they weren’t close, but Bobby should know Dean better than that, know that whatever good things Dean was capable of, playing in the starting lineup of a major league team wasn’t one of those things. That fucking lineup proved _that_ belief wrong, and his fury painted the fucking walls red. It was ridiculous to think of Bobby’s attitude as a betrayal, yet Dean couldn’t help it. There were only two people in his life who’d never held him to impossible-to-meet expectations: Bobby and Sam. And now there was only his brother.

Desperate to work off some steam, Dean stormed to his locker, grabbed a bat, found himself an unused backfield with a pitching machine set up, and took batting practice. Clutching the wood in his hands felt good, solid and reassuring, and smacking the shit out of baseballs was much more legal than bashing heads. Powerful swings twisted him around, the wood resounded each time he made contact, and if the balls didn’t go far, at least many of them stayed fair.

As he calmed down, he had to acknowledge: compared to his usual, he wasn’t actually hitting badly.

“Lookin’ good, brother,” called a familiar southern drawl. Dean flicked a glance to the sidelines and discovered that he’d gathered a small audience of players who hadn’t gone to that day’s game, leaning against the wire mesh fence and watching him square up for another swing – Lafitte, Novak, Milligan, a kid that Dean had only heard called Alfie, some minor leaguers he didn’t know. A whistle told him a ball had sailed by while he was distracted, and he turned his attention back to what he was doing.

“It’s bull and you know it, Benny,” Dean shouted, breathless, taking a swing that cut high over the ball.

“That why you’re startin’ tomorrow?” Benny shouted.

“No,” Dean grunted, taking another swing. “Startin’ tomorrow cause Singer is a fucking idiot.” There were several shocked gasps, so loud that they carried over the sound of Dean’s bat making contact. _Fricken rookies_.

“That was a homerun, Winchester,” said Novak, completely neutrally. _What’s he doing here, anyway?_

 _Wait, that was a homer?_ He hadn’t bothered to watch where the ball went, all he knew was that he’d made contact. _It doesn’t matter. It’s a fucking fluke. Any idiot can hit a pitching machine, but it’s totally different during[the big show](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball_\(S\)#the_Show)_ _._

With a lingering flare of his earlier anger, Dean assumed his batting stance and swung as hard as he could at the next pitch. The instant of contact he knew he’d blown it, his grip too tight, his shoulders too tense, and his hands trembled in pain as the ball sailed nearly straight up and the maple shattered in his grip. “Son of a...” he muttered and sighed, throwing aside remnant of the bat. The pitching machine lobbed another ball and he went to turn it off; somewhere behind him, the foul fly he’d hit thudded dully as it struck the ground.

“Come on, let’s go celebrate,” called Lafitte.

“Wow, really?” Dean answered, shaking his head. “Right, of course, it’s the big sports story of the year: Dean Winchester gets a spring training start with the real players. So fuckin’ exciting.”

“Dean—”

“Don’t worry about it,” sighed Dean, letting his anger go. What was the use? If he stayed pissed, he’d just grow to be more and more like his father. That was about the last thing he wanted. “Yeah, sure, let’s grab dinner. Any of you young idiots want to go?”

“ ‘Course I’m coming,” said Milligan brightly. The boy, nearly a decade younger than Dean, showed all the benefits of being raised by his mother Kate, with John in his life as little as possible. Nonetheless, he’d ended up trapped by the game, too. Dean liked him, which was part of why he stayed away. Being around Adam brought out the worst in Dean, reminded him of what it might have been like to have a stable childhood instead of being carted all over the country, all over the world, because Mary Winchester was dead and John didn’t want to be apart from his boys even though he was too busy playing to make any fucking time for them. If his mother hadn’t died, Dean might have had Adam’s youth. Thinking about it invariably left Dean seething, but it wasn’t Adam’s fault so Dean tried to keep away rather than take his anger out on the boy. The result was that they weren’t close, which was for the better. Milligan had proved a better player than either of his elders. Maybe it was his mother’s genes showing through or some shit.

“May I come too?” asked the tall, lean boy Dean thought was named Alfie. Lafitte snorted and clapped him on the back.

“You’d better, boy,” said Lafitte. “Got a lot to teach you. What about you, Novak?”

“No, thanks,” Novak replied coldly. He turned on a heel and walked away without another word.

“Well, it’s nice that there are some constants in the universe. He’s as much of a ray of sunshine as always.” Lafitte shook his head.

“He’s _intense_ ,” one of the kids cut in, awed. “I wish I could pitch like that.”

“Cas warms up when you get to know him,” added Milligan. “He wasn’t like this last year. I think he misses Jimmy. They were very close – never been on different teams before. Like, never in their whole lives. They even lived together in DC.”

“What, he’s pouting ‘cause he got dumped?” Dean joked, joining the others. Images popped into his head of Novak and his twin, identical save that Jimmy Novak wore his dark hair long so that it curled around his ears and made ringlets at the base of his neck. He imagined the two young men huddled close, talking earnestly, two happy, smiling faces with matching shimmering blue eyes, pink lips so close they almost brushed as they shared secrets. And if one of them happened to lean in, how startled would the other be? What if it wasn’t an accident? What if...he cut off that line of thinking. _They’re fricken twins, brothers – it’d be like if I kissed Sam – don’t be disgusting, Winchester_...

_...but it’d be really fucking hot if they did, especially Novak with that temper of his..._

_...Just. Stop._

“You ready to go?” Lafitte asked. Dean had zoned out and missed some of the conversation, but it hardly mattered. Nodding, he started across the field and as a group they headed to the lockers to get cleaned up.

After he’d showered and changed, Dean told the others he’d catch up in a bit and, lingering by his car in the parking lot, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed his brother.

“Hey, Dean, what’s up? Spring training going well?” asked Sam. “Also, I e-mailed you with some tie colors we’ve been thinking about, have you gotten a chance to take a look?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m _really_ fucking invested in what color tie I wear. Why don’t you ask me about the flowers next?” Dean rolled his eyes. Sam started to protest, but Dean cut him off. “Green is good. Not for the flowers, that’d be fucking weird. Anyway, that’s not why I called.” He took a deep breath.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Alarm tinged Sam’s voice and Dean bit his lip.

_Why’d I even call? There’s nothing here, and here I am actually getting my fucking hopes up. We haven’t played the fucking game yet. I’m like one of those young morons who gets their big break and spends their whole fucking signing bonus only to get injured in the first week, and then they have to figure out some way to give the whole fucking thing back._

“Nothin’...it’s nothin’, I shouldn’t have called,” said Dean.

“Dean...”

“Fine, whatever, I’m starting tomorrow,” he said in a rush, closing his eyes against Sam’s reaction.

“In a spring training game?” Sam said uncertainly.

“Yeah, catching for Cas Novak,” Dean felt even more ridiculous in the face of Sam’s underwhelmed reaction.

 _That’s because it’s not. I’ve started about a billion fucking minor league games and this will be exactly the same. It doesn’t mean shit_.

“I take it catching for him in the bullpen has been going well, then?” There was the same hesitancy to Sam’s voice.

“I dunno – I guess,” Dean shrugged. “He acts like he fucking hates me, but when we play together he pitches well, and Bobby seems to think it’s a good idea, so I guess I’m stuck with it.”

“And you called just to tell me this?” The hesitancy was replaced by skepticism and Dean ground his teeth together.

“No, I’m a way bigger moron than that,” Dean forced out. “I called ‘cause – I mean, I feel good, Sammy, I feel better than I have in spring in years and I was thinking – I know, it’s fucking crazy – just – I don’t know, I shouldn’t have called, never mind.”

“You think there’s a chance you’ll make the team,” Sam inferred.

“Fuck, it sounds fricken _ridiculous_ when you say it like that,” muttered Dean. “Of course I won’t.”

“They were thinking about Benny, weren’t they?” Sam asked matter-of-factly. Dean didn’t answer. “Why wouldn’t they consider you a possibility? You’re a damn good catcher, Dean, not that you need me to tell you that.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Dean, hunching his shoulders and kicking at the dirt. _Fucking get it together, Winchester, what are you, five?_ “Look, Sammy, I called because...if something does happen...I don’t have a contract...I know it’s fucking stupid, there’s not a chance in hell...but, you know...you’re…what you are...and...but it’s not gonna happen, so I shoulda just kept my fucking mouth shut...and...”

“Of _course_ I’ll be your agent if there’s a chance you’ll get signed,” Sam said, and Dean could fucking _hear_ his brother rolling his eyes. “You don’t even have to ask, Dean. But don’t let it worry you yet – go out there and play, and do your best, and we’ll see, okay?”

“Yeah...yeah, okay,” Dean nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. If only it was that easy. If only it had _ever_ been that easy.

He gave it one inning before some douche bag confronted him and asked if it was finally, _finally_ time for “young” Dean Winchester to follow in his father’s footsteps. Fuck John Winchester and his endless fucking shadow, fuck the media, fuck the pressure of performing, fuck Novak for pitching well to him, and fuck Bobby for asking Dean to try _again_ , knowing that Dean had blown it every fucking time he’d tried to play above the minors.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The high of playing professional baseball in front of a crowd of thousands was unlike anything other feeling. Over the winter, Castiel inevitably forgot how incredible it was to stand on the field with thousands cheering from the stands. Each spring, the roar of the audience washed over him for the first time and he instantly found the focus that often eluded him during the off season, the concentration and intensity necessary to pitch successfully to the best hitters in the world. Spring training crowds were miniscule in comparison to a regular season audience, a few thousand instead of tens of thousands, but after four or five months practicing alone it was still like the first hit of a drug after months without a hit. The swell of noise buoyed Castiel as he walked out to the mound, the other players ran out from the dugout to take their positions on the field, and calm serenity overtook the panic that had been eating at him since he found out that he’d be the starting pitcher for the Nationals first spring training game against the Braves.

Jimmy was slated to hit sixth in the lineup. With any luck, Castiel wouldn’t have to pitch to him in the first inning. _Luck has nothing to do with it. If I pitch well –_ when _I pitch well – he won’t come up until the second inning. I can worry about it then._ He stepped into place, paced short strides to get a feel for the dirt beneath his feet, flexed his fingers, and took a steadying breath. His nerves thrummed as they rarely had even in the tensest games he’d played. _What if_ —

Castiel’s eye caught the catcher’s behind the mound as he stood, holding a ball out and hesitating on the verge of throwing it to Castiel. Winchester’s familiar features were obscured by the gear he wore – leg guards, a thick chest protector, a helmet, a face plate. The angle of the sun cast his face into shadow but Castiel could still feel Winchester’s gaze, saw him wink and throw effortlessly to the mound. Castiel caught the game ball easily, transferred it from his glove to his throwing hand and rolled it between his fingers to get a feel for it. The weight was familiar and comforting, and watching Winchester settle into a catchers’ squat behind home plate was also surprisingly familiar and comforting. Though Castiel knew Dean was anxious about this game, it didn’t show now. On the contrary, Winchester projected an air of self-possession, his squat steady, his glove held perfectly still as he centered to receive a warm up pitch. The spread mitt made a focus for Castiel’s eye, a focus for his throw, a focus for his thoughts; he lifted his leg and set, his arm jerked back and forward, the ball left his hand smoothly, every movement intimately familiar and the same as he’d done ten thousand times before. Even from ninety feet away, Castiel heard the crack of leather on leather as Dean caught the pitch, rose, threw it back, dropped down again. They threw a half-dozen before the umpire came up to take his position behind Winchester and the first batter in the Atlanta lineup sauntered up to the plate, using his bat to knock dirt from his cleats. Several endless seconds passed and then the batter was ready, the umpire was ready, Winchester was ready, Castiel was ready, and the game started.

Given how casually Winchester behaved when they warmed up, Castiel had been surprised when, a few days earlier, they’d played a mock inning and Winchester was focused, intense, and utterly absorbed in the both physical and mental activity of playing catcher. His confidence in directing Castiel’s pitches had been infectious, and despite initially thinking it was absurd to play a pretend inning, Castiel had been swept away in the roleplay. In a game, things were somewhat different. Instead of making all the decisions on how to approach each batter, Winchester got hand signals from Turner or Singer indicating what approach to take, but Winchester still played a critical part in deciding their game plan. He had to be intimately familiar with every batter’s strengths and weaknesses and with Castiel’s pitching style, but he also needed to be alert to how everyone was playing on any given day and adjust the pitching strategy accordingly. Factors like the weather could profoundly influence how a game needed to be called, too. The best pitchers understood all of those factors, and so did the best catchers. Everyone on the field played an essential role, and on any given day the outcome of the game could hinge on the play any of them, be it Milligan in Center Field or Talley at shortstop or Alfie in the bullpen or Kubrick sitting and twiddling his thumbs on the bench. However, when things went badly the bulk of the blame tended to heap on the shoulders of the pitcher; what few realized was how much the pitcher relied on his catcher.

_How much I relied on Jimmy…no, not anymore, now I rely on Dean Winchester…_

It was true, he realized as he paced the mound one last time, waiting for the batter to get comfortable in the [batter’s box](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baseball_field#Batter.27s_box_and_catcher.27s_box). Of all the catchers he’d tried this spring, the only one Castiel reposed confidence in was Winchester.

With laser focus, Winchester’s eyes met Castiel’s and he gave a hand signal shielded by his glove to obscure it from the opposing team. Castiel squared, eyes fixed on the plate, fixed on the glove; the batter was a vague, irrelevant blur. The glove was his target as Castiel threw the first pitch of the game. The ball smacked leather as Winchester caught it, the crowd roared to celebrate the start of play, the umpire threw up his right hand to indicate a strike, the batter stepped back from the plate, and Winchester stood and tossed the ball back. Catching it, Castiel wasted no time preparing for his next pitch. There was no bullshit with Winchester, just professionalism, intensity, skill, and a keen understanding of how to approach the game. The first batter went down in four pitches, the second in three, and the third swung wildly into a pop fly that Carey caught lazily in foul territory near third base. The inning ended, the crowd cheered and the Nationals returned to the dugout save for Talley, who went to warm up because he was hitting at the top of the lineup in the bottom of the first inning. Castiel nodded to the smiles he got from his teammates as he stepped down into the dugout.

Pitching to Winchester was _easy_.

The bottom of the first went quickly; Talley worked out a walk on eight pitches but no one capitalized on his success. Castiel only paid half a mind to the game. Winchester caught his attention immediately and talked, low and quick, about how the first inning had gone and what his intentions were for the second. After a lifetime of working with Jimmy, doing all their game prep and research together, watching video, comparing notes, working out a game plan, it had been weird preparing for his spring training games alone. He and Dean had a long talk before the game, though, and Castiel had been impressed by how prepared Dean was. Speaking with Dean now provided an unnecessary refresher to Castiel’s memory and, more importantly, distracted Castiel from looking out to the field to watch Jimmy playing catcher to Julio Teheran.

Taking the mound for the top of the second, Castiel kept his eyes on Winchester and got through the first two batters as easily as he had the first three, so intent that he scarce registered that there was anything he should be tense about. As Jimmy approached the batter’s box, though, reality became impossible to ignore. No catchers’ gear bulked out his brother’s muscular, lean body; no mask hid his handsome features; every line of his stance was familiar. Castiel knew how to get Jimmy out, but Jimmy also knew how Castiel would try to get him out.

_God, he looks gorgeous…I miss him so much…no. He left me. He abandoned me. He made all those choices for both of us without even considering how it would make me feel. I don’t need his help to be a great pitcher, I don’t need him with me to succeed, and I don’t need his love._

There was a collective gasp from the crowd at Castiel’s first fastball. Even over the distance, Castiel could see Jimmy’s eyes go wide. _And blue, so blue, son of a bitch._ The second pitch brought applause, and as soon as the third left his hand, Castiel knew the inning was over. He didn’t even watch, didn’t want to watch and see Jimmy’s expression when he struck out; he turned and started towards the dugout and the crowd erupted as if he’d just gotten the last out of a big game.

“Holy hell, Novak,” exclaimed Winchester as he hurried to Castiel’s side. “I didn’t know you could throw that hard.”

“He’s not supposed to,” Singer muttered darkly. “Unless he wants to spend the rest of his career as a [situational lefty](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Left-handed_specialist) doing [short relief](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Relief_pitcher).”

“You’d make me [closer ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Closer_\(baseball\))and you know it,” Castiel said flatly, though he couldn’t keep his lips from quirking into a faint smile. Somehow, striking out his brother in three pitches made him feel better about _everything_. The brief, stunned look he got from Winchester, followed a moment later by uproarious laughter, didn’t cool the warm glow in Castiel’s chest.

_I want to continue pitching to him._

“Get out of that gear, Winchester, you’ve got an at-bat coming up,” Singer said with the brusque, affectionate tone that Castiel noticed Singer often used when he was talking to Winchester.

_I’m glad they had him start the game today._

“Worst managing decision of your career, Bobby,” replied Winchester, an edge of tension in his usually cheerful voice, shaking his head as he tugged his chest plate off.

_He’s a great defensive player, Milton couldn’t ask for better. All he needs to do is hit. Judging by how he was in the cage yesterday, he’s got the potential, but…_

Winchester’s expression was impassive as he stripped off his protective wear, donned a helmet, worked a little [pine tar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pine_tar#Use_of_pine_tar_in_baseball) onto his hands and grabbed a bat. He was first up in the bottom of the third, and Castiel was surprised that his nerves thrilled as he watched Winchester make his way onto the field. He was almost as anxious about Winchester’s performance as he’d felt pitching to his brother for the first time.

 _If he can’t do this_... _he said he’s a lousy hitter. There’s no way he’ll make the team unless he swings the bat well_.

Tension was evident in every warm up swing. Winchester’s shoulders bunched, his elbows were tight and the twist at his waist awkward. Muttering a curse, Singer hustled with surprising alacrity out to the batter’s warmup circle, put a hand on Winchester’s arm and spoke in Winchester’s ear. Swinging the bat idly, Winchester nodded as he listened, and then the inning started and he moved to the batter’s box with a grim expression. He looked like he was prepared for his own funeral.

Striking Jimmy out proved only slightly more satisfying than watching Dean Winchester knock the second pitch thrown to him out of the park. The crowd went silent in shock and then roared their approval. Even Winchester stunned, staring after it and blinking, the bat sliding to the ground through his numb fingers.

“Run, ya idjit,” shouted Singer, barely suppressing a laugh. Shaking himself, Winchester took off for first at a loping trot.

“Singer?” said Castiel, watching as Winchester broke into a smile that made him look ten years younger. _A great catcher, good eye as a hitter, and he’s handsome too._

“Yeah, Cas?”

_Not that the last matters._

“I want him to be my catcher,” Castiel said decisively. Winchester circled third and came down the last 90 feet, beaming, and Castiel smiled and did his damnedest to ignore Jimmy as he glowered behind home plate.

“Me too,” Singer nodded

It was only Castiel’s third start of spring and he pitched only five innings, but it was the first game where he felt like himself, despite Jimmy’s presence reminding him of everything he’d lost. For the first time since he found out that Jimmy had been traded, Castiel looked forward to his next start with something other than dread. Cautious optimism, he’d call it. Even though he’d played well, Winchester seemed to feel no such reassurance. As soon as the game ended, he stormed out of the dugout, refused to talk to Castiel even when they were in cool down together and left the stadium as soon as he could, having had not a kind word to spare for anyone. Baffled by the change in his attitude and how incongruous Winchester’s anger was with his success, Castiel considered following, but his cell phone vibrated against the wood of his locker and he looked to see the screen lit and a text from Jimmy.

_Jimmy (6:14 PM): Hey bro, great game. Dinner?_

Castiel stared at the screen, hands shaking, anger choking away every good feeling the game had left him with. They hadn’t seen each other since Jimmy moved out in December. They hadn’t spoken once since then.

_How dare he text me out of the blue and think everything will be fine? How dare he decide that things are suddenly okay now? He made every other decision. I get to choose when we’re in contact again, not him._

He deleted the message unanswered, looked up Jimmy in his contacts list and debated deleting the entire entry.

_I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t miss him. I don’t need him. I don’t love him._

With a sigh, he blacked the cell phone screen and stuffed it in his duffel bag.

_Lie to Jimmy all you want, you can’t lie to yourself._

That single thought circled Castiel’s head endlessly, unanswerable, and kept him up late into the night.

* * *

The next morning, Winchester was back to his usual self – calm, patient, a bit self-deprecating, a bit wry, and clearly convinced that he’d be nothing but Castiel’s warm-up catcher for the rest of his life. Castiel had never been more glad for Winchester’s steadiness because his peevishness hadn’t worn off. Around two am, it dawned on Castiel that the only reason things weren’t fine with his brother was that Castiel had decided they wouldn’t be fine. The realization left him guilty that he felt angry, and angry that he felt guilty, and both were compounded by his fatigue. A schedule pitching session with Gallagher later that day only added to Castiel’s irritation. Working with Gallagher was a monumental waste of everyone’s time. A timid thought suggested that Castiel could contact his brother, but he pushed it away. It was too late. Castiel had to focus on his new situation and let the past be the past. Who his catcher used to be didn’t matter. What mattered was who his catcher would be in 2016. Increasingly, Castiel hoped it’d be Dean Winchester.

Winchester had another start two days after the Atlanta game, catching for Fitzgerald, and the day after that he caught for Tran. He still spent the mornings training with Castiel, but if the intense schedule wore on him, the only way it showed was in the stress he leaked. It seemed like the better he played, the more irritated he grew, but Castiel could think of no way to broach the topic to him. Despite the time they spent together preparing for games, Castiel didn’t feel comfortable asking Winchester about his personal life or why success should leave him spitting mad.

Castiel’s next start was with Lafitte, but halfway through Turner switched to Winchester without explanation. Castiel immediately started pitching better, and was calmer both behind and at the plate than he’d been since their last start together. Castiel had a list of reasons he felt comfortable pitching to Winchester as opposed to the others, starting with his professionalism and experience, but he was less sure why Winchester was comfortable as his catcher. Feedback from the few catchers he’d worked with other than Jimmy was negative. The nicest thing Henriksen had said the first time Castiel pitched to him was that he was high-strung; their conversation had devolved from there. Castiel kept expecting that things with Winchester would sour as well, but no rumors got back to him that Winchester was unhappy, and management continued to have them work together.

By the last week of spring training, Henriksen started more than half the training games, his spot in the opening day roster having never been in doubt. The second catcher’s spot was down to Winchester and Bass. No one seemed more amazed than Winchester himself; the man walked around with a troubled look on his face, his brow furrowed, and occasionally he’d mutter something under his breath. He seemed anxious up until the moment Castiel was facing him from the mound and then Winchester grew perfectly calm. It was bizarre to watch the contrast.

After Castiel’s last spring training start before opening day – a loss for Nationals, though Castiel had pitched well – he retreated to cool down with Harvelle. Winchester followed, stuck his head in to her gym and said, “We’re good, right Jo?” He got a firm nod in return and left.

“How’re you feeling, Novak?” asked the trainer brightly. Thus far, Castiel had been impressed with her. He was used to trainers, especially female trainers, who were perky to the point of mental derangement, always smiling, always upbeat. Harvelle had traces of that – there was a smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes at all times – but she was also realistic and competent and could lay down the law when she needed to.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he said. His first season in the majors, Castiel had learned his lesson about keeping quiet when he wasn’t physically a hundred percent. He’d kept quiet about a persistent ache in his elbow and had almost ruined one of his tendons. “I’ve felt great so far.”

“That’s good,” she said. Without a word, she got him started on the familiar routine of stretches with which he ended his day. “So, how goes the catching quest?”

“It’d likely to be Bass,” Castiel said, letting her position his legs. “Winchester has been hitting better, but his career batting average in the major leagues is [below the Mendoza line](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mendoza_Line). Bass’ record is only a little warmer than that, but he seems the probable choice.”

“But not your preference?” Harvelle said knowingly, supporting Castiel as he leaned back into a quad stretch.

“I’d rather Winchester,” he admitted. 

“Have you told Singer that?” she asked.

“Several times,” said Castiel. Harvelle helped him straighten and came to his front, setting her hands on his shoulders to support him for the next stretch.

“Good,” she nodded. “Bass has been playing well, but Dean deserves the shot.” He gave her a curious look and she smiled sheepishly. “He’s a great player. If he was anyone else’s kid, he’d have spent years in the majors, but every team that brought him on thought he’d hit like John and when he didn’t they booted him down to the minors. It’s total bull, of course. John was a once-in-a-generation player; expecting Dean to be his equal is ludicrous.” Castiel blinked at her in surprise and she smiled. “The Winchesters are childhood friends of mine. Well, sort of, I’m a bit younger than they are. My father, Bill Harvelle—”

“The centerfielder?”

She nodded. “Dad was on the Giants with John and Bobby until the injury that forced him to retire. We lived in San Francisco back then. During home games, Dean and Sam and their dad stayed with us.”

“Is that why you ended up a trainer?” Castiel asked. Reaching out, he let Harvelle hook his pitching arm and tug him gently but firmly into a tricep stretch.

“No, it’s why I ended up a baseball player.” An unusual twinge of irritation darkened her tone. She released the stretch and paused to sweep aside a lock of hair that had escaped her blonde ponytail. “But girls _can’t_ play baseball, apparently, so I ended up a softball player. But being a professional softball player is pointless, so I left the game.”

“That’s too bad,” said Castiel sincerely. While it was true that most women lacked the strength to keep up with male players, he had watched the women’s team at his college and seen plenty to impress him. Women should be given the opportunity to play with and against men, and if they were good enough, they should be given the same shot a young male player would be given. That wasn’t the nature of the game, though. “I think, if something like that happened to me, I’d be too angry to want to work with players who _were_ allowed to play.”

Harvelle froze and stared at him, blinking. Quirking his eyes to one side, he considered her. She had serious dark eyes, a slim build and was quite attractive. He guessed she was around his age, young enough to have had the chance for a lot of good years, old enough that this would have been the prime of her career. When she didn’t answer, he asked, “what position did you play?”

The question seemed to push her from her startlement and she went back to guiding him through his post-workout routine as she spoke. “Pitcher. I could throw a 90 mile per hour fastball at my best, though not anymore. My mom tried to convince me to pick up a knuckle ball and make a run to be the first woman in the major leagues. I thought about it – even practiced the pitch, what a fricken pain in the ass it is, have you ever tried? – but in the end I thought I’d rather leave on my own terms and do something I enjoyed rather than work my butt off and get perfect only to face a lifetime of disappointment anyway.”

“That’s sensible,” Castiel said. “I don’t think I could do what you’re doing. After working so hard? It’d grate too much, especially when that denial was over something as arbitrary as an X Chromosome.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not nearly as implacable in my irritation than you are,” she said with a laugh. An instant later, her face blanched, “crap, I’m sorry, that was completely out of line, I—”

“No, you’re probably right,” he said seriously, thinking about the times in his life when he’d stayed angry long after he should have. The specter of Jimmy flitted through his mind. He’d never answered the text that Jimmy had sent, and though the Nationals had played the Braves twice more, Jimmy hadn’t tried to contact him again. _I miss him so much_. “I sometimes let my temper get the better of me. Pitching has forced me to get better about it, but it still causes me problems from time to time.” He chuckled. “When we were in college, there was this opposing batter named Bartholomew. First time he came to bat against me, he hit a homerun. Lost my temper, got myself kicked out of the game, nearly got an [NCAA ](http://www.ncaa.com/sports/baseball/d1)suspension. All season, I pitched to him with a vengeance, threw [inside ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inside_pitching)to knock him off the plate, pulled out my best stuff. Jimmy thought I was being an idiot but I had to teach him a lesson for crossing me, had to teach him to fear my pitching. He didn’t get another hit off me the entire season. After the last game – we crushed them – the teams lined up to shake hands, and when I got the Bartholomew he grinned and laughed and said he’d never seen a better pitcher, that I was gonna have one hell of a career, and wished me luck. There wasn’t a bit of anger in him, it had all been the game for him, while I’d been nursing a vendetta for most of year. It was a valuable lesson. Speaking of which – you don’t have to watch how you talk in front of me, say what you think. I appreciate it.”

“Good to know,” she replied, nudging him to bend over and stretch his back. “You’re not bad, Novak.”

“You could call me Cas,” Castiel suggested, hoping he wasn’t misreading her tone of voice and relaxed attitude. He’d never found it easy to make friends but he dared to hope maybe he’d found someone to talk to, now that the only person he’d ever felt he could talk to was gone.

 _No, Jimmy’s not gone. He’d be willing to talk to you, if you were willing talk to him_.

 _But I’m not willing to talk to him, not after what he did_.

“Only if you’ll stop calling me Harvelle,” she grinned. “You realize _no one_ calls me by my last name but you, right? It’s Jo.”

“Alright,” Castiel smiled, feeling more confident in his assessment. “Thanks, Jo.”

“Much better,” she nodded. Standing and knuckling her back, she led him over to a cabinet and began pulling out heating and cooling pads. “So, your story about Bartholomew reminded me of this one time. All us baseball brats used to hang out together – there were about a dozen of us, kids of the players on the Giants – and we’d use whatever crap we could find to lay out a diamond and pretend to be our dads. Sometimes we’d play each other, sometimes we’d play locals, and they always wanted to school us ‘cause they were regular kids and here we were, the kids of famous players. So, this one time, Dean and I… ”

By the time the story was done, Castiel was laughing as genuinely as he had any time since his brother had left, his cool down was done, and he was finished for the day.

_Tomorrow, I convince Singer and Turner that Dean Winchester needs to be the opening day catcher._

When Castiel arrived the next morning, Turner was hanging something on the billboard as Castiel walked by. The lineups for the remaining spring training games had been announced with the exception of the last two. For some reason, some jackass had decided that the Nationals had to leave Florida, go home to Washington, play two spring training games against the Twins, and then head south again to play Opening Day against the Braves in Atlanta. It was an asinine schedule. Milton had suggested that Castiel stay south rather than tire himself out with the pointless extra travel. Normally, Castiel would have agreed, but the closer Opening Day came the more he stewed in a morass of nerves related to starting the first game of the year, starting against the Braves and Jimmy, starting with whatever catcher they decided to stick him with. Going with the team to DC would be tiring but at least he’d have plenty of distractions. He stepped up to the board and Turner moved out the way, giving Castiel a raised eyebrow and a hand raised in wry invitation to look at what had been posted.

“Whaddaya think, ace?” Turner asked.

The lineups for the two games in Washington were virtually identical. Tran started the first game and veteran Calvin Reidy, a recently named as their fourth starter, would start the second. Other than that the only differences were that Walker started at first in one and Kubrick started the other; and that Winchester was starting the game on April Fool’s Day, while Bass was starting the other.

“Can the team carry three catchers?” asked Castiel uncertainly. Fishing through his memory, he tried to remember if either Winchester or Bass were capable of playing a position other than catcher. If one was versatile, it wouldn’t be crippling to have them both on the 25 man roster. _It wouldn’t matter if they could play every position. The Nats don’t need[defensive replacements](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defensive_substitution)_ _[,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defensive_substitution) we need [pinch hitters](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinch_hitter)_ _, we need clinch players who can come in during a key moment and get a hit. That’s definitely neither of them._

“Fuck no,” Turner confirmed Castiel’s assessment with a snort. “Milton favors Bass. Singer wants Winchester, of course. You want Winchester...?” He trailed off and did not continue until Castiel nodded. He’d pitch to Bass if he had to. _At least Dean will be in the bullpen for warm ups even if he doesn’t make the team...not Dean...Winchester, I should think of him as Winchester._ “And I’m on the fence. Deciding vote. So, do or die, each of them’ll get one game to show us – to show _me –_ that they have the balls to be the Opening Day starter. Whichever can do that gets the start. If neither impresses me...well, we can always bring back Gallagher.”

“No!” Castiel started angrily.

“At least Gallagher can fuckin’ hit,” Turner continued over him, fixing Castiel with a steely look. “Look, you’re 25 and you’ve been spoiled to the high fucking heavens. We’ve all let you get away with it. You think most pitchers in the league get away with this shit? You think _any_ other starter gets to hand-pick their own catcher? You’re on the Nationals now and your contract has three more years. When that’s done, you’ll be on the open market, available to the highest bidder. When that time comes, do you want everyone to shy away because you’ve been playing princess with us for the past five years? You think _anyone_ will want you on their team if they’re worried you’re gonna throw a fit when you don’t get your way? You think anyone will hire a pitcher, no matter how good he is, who has a meltdown every time ‘his’ catcher goes on the DL? You’ve got a lot of potential, kid – I’ve seen few pitchers with more – but you’re not irreplaceable. Jimmy was a good match for you, but he’s not the only one, and this is your moment to learn how to move the fuck on. I don’t give a shit which of these guys you prefer. Milton and I are going to pick the catcher who gives us the best chance of winning, regardless of what you _want_. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Castiel through gritted teeth, his temper flaring. _No, don’t get angry. It’s not worth it. He’s my manager. I have to interact with him every day, making him my enemy won’t help anything._

“Love that self-control of yours,” Turner sneered sarcastically. “Get on with your warm-up, Novak, I got better shit to do than lecture your grown ass. Oh, and you’ve been pitching well the last few weeks. Keep it up.”

* * *

When team left for Washington DC, Castiel went with them. For no reason he could put his finger on, he wanted – no, he _needed_ – to see those two games. He had to see how Winchester and Bass did.

_Though...neither would really be that bad. Bass is a great catcher._

_But Dean – Winchester! – is better._

Castiel had driven down to Florida – it was habit and tradition – but he flew back with the rest of the team, having made arrangements to have his car shipped back to Washington. He’d not need it outside of the city for the rest of the season. Unless he got injured – always possible – he’d be relying on the team transportation from then on out. The Nationals owned him from Opening Day on April 4th until the end of the season on October 2nd. _Or further into the fall, if we play as well as everyone thinks we can_. October ball was the annual, perennial dream. The Nationals had made the post-season the previous year but had been knocked out in the [National League Division Series](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_League_Division_Series). Pundits predicted that the Nationals had a good shot at the World Series in 2016, though there were so many variables that their predictions were virtually worthless. That didn’t stop them talking, though. They had hours of television and pages of magazines and newspapers to fill, so they had to talk about _something_. Castiel wondered if Winchester realized how much of the coverage on the Nationals related to who would be Castiel’s catcher. Taking his seat on the plane, Castiel caught a glimpse of Dean’s face, skin pale beneath his tan and freckles, his grip white-knuckled on his arm-rests though the plane was sitting immobile at the gate. As Castiel watched, Dean squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed hard enough that his Adam’s apple bobbled, and his lips moved in what looked like a silent prayer, or perhaps a silent string of swear words, knowing Dean... _Winchester. He’s Winchester, not Dean._ _Damn it..._

 _Maybe his nerves are why he’s never succeeded_ _in the majors. If this is how he reacts to the possibility of playing a no-stakes game at[Nationals Park](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ea/Aerial_view_of_Nationals_Park.jpg)_ _, how will he cope with Opening Day at[Turner Field](http://www.cookandsonbats.com/panoramas/turner/turner-405.jpg)_[ _?_](http://www.cookandsonbats.com/panoramas/turner/turner-405.jpg)

Pushing it from his mind – _I’ve done what I can, the rest is up to him_ – Castiel took his seat, put on some quiet music and grabbed a notebook of scouting reports that he’d stashed in his backpack. Flights had been such a routine part of his life the last few years he found them interminably dull. With Jimmy gone, it was even worse.

_Somehow, everything I do feels like I’ve never done it before. How can it all be so different without him here, when objectively it’s all the same as I’ve done the last few years?_

Singer had collated a report for Castiel about every player projected to play for the Braves on Opening Day. Some names were familiar, some new. Some he’d pitched to numerous times, some were household names brought from other teams, some were rookies. It didn’t matter. When the moment came, Castiel had to pitch to each of them as if he was intimately acquainted with their every quirk, their every tell. Before the spring training game at Nationals Park, Castiel was scheduled to meet with Singer, Fitzgerald, Tran, the other starters and relievers. They’d watch footage of the opposing batters and dissect each swing, discussing how the Nats expected to earn all 27 outs of the game. Usually, the catchers would attend as well. Henriksen, of course, would be there, but Castiel wondered if Bass or D... _Winchester_...would be there, or if both would be, or neither. Before that meeting, Castiel needed to have internalized page after page of Sabermetrics about each player. What were their favorite pitches? Where in the strike zone were they must vulnerable? Given the type of pitch, what type of hit were they likely to get? Some hitters were prone to swinging at pitches inside and getting ground ball outs or pop ups; others who swung at a similar pitch would hit a homerun. It depended on their play style, their height and stance, whether they were right handed or left handed, whether the pitcher was right handed or left handed, how many men were on base already, whether their team was in the lead or behind, what the pitch count was, whether the day was hot or cold, whether they were playing on their home field or on the road, and countless other variables both known and unknown. Baseball was an intellectual game, and more than anyone else on the team, the pitchers and catchers had to be keep track of endless possibilities and make constant adjustments. Castiel always judged people who said baseball was boring. There was nothing more intense or challenging than the exchange between a hitter and pitcher.

Leaning back in his chair, Castiel closed the binder and rubbed the bridge of his nose. At least he wasn’t a rookie any longer. That first year had been a nightmare, every team and every player brand new and unknown to him. Sure, he’d watched loads of games on TV and there were a handful of guys he’d faced in the minor leagues or when he played college ball, but for the most part he had to learn every opposing team from scratch. Now, he had a solid foundation. He’d faced many of the Braves players before – Pierzynski, Markakis, Freeman, Simmons, Swisher, Garcia, Ciriaco – which meant he could refresh himself on them but focus his attention on learning about those he didn’t know. He’d review it again in a few hours, again before he went to bed, again in the morning before the meeting with Singer, again in the afternoon after meeting with Singer, again the next day, again the day after that, and one last time the morning of the game when the actual batting order was announced.

 _You gotta stop pushing so hard, Cassie_ , Jimmy’s voice whispered in his memory. _You always pitch worse when you over-think shit. I know some sure-fire ways to relax_...

A glimmer of the smirk that always graced Jimmy’s face when he was up to mischief stirred in Castiel’s memory. Right about now – _no, probably about twenty minutes ago_ – was when Jimmy would have lured Castiel to the plane bathroom and blown him, casually dismissing Castiel’s fears that everyone on the plane would know. No one had ever caught them. Now, Jimmy was gone and no one ever would. He was alone. Even Harvelle wasn’t there to talk to. The team support staff didn’t share a flight with the players and coaching staff.

Bored, Castiel undid his belt, rose and walked a lap up and down the aisle. He exchanged hellos with other members of the team, traded small talk, tried to ignore Talley and Corbett competing to see which could get smashed faster, ignored Walker sneering at him. Alfie waved him over for a conversation – Castiel was glad the young rookie had made the bullpen, he reminded Castiel of himself a few years before. Tran, the only player on the team who studied harder than Castiel, was focused so intently on a spray chart that Castiel recognized as belonging to Cameron Maybin that Tran didn’t notice when Castiel accidentally brushed his arm.

 _Wait, maybe Tran_ isn’t _the most studious member of the team any longer..._

Dean was hunched over his own binder, staring at the page, a bead of sweat on his brow though the plane was a comfortable temperature, his grip on his tray table as white-knuckled as his grip on the armrests had been earlier. The binder was open to Julio Teheran’s page – he was the Braves ace, which wasn’t saying loads considering the quality of their pitching staff – and he would be pitching Opening Day for his team. Winchester’s eyes were glued to the stats on the types of pitches Teheran used and where he was vulnerable, his gaze so fixed that tears pooled around the bottom his eyes. They were bloodshot, Castiel noticed, as if Winchester hadn’t slept well or had been drinking.

“I’m so fucked,” muttered Winchester.

“No, you’re not,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. Winchester’s head whipped up and he huffed out as if he’d been holding his breath.

“Hey, Novak,” Winchester put on a false smile, lips drawn back so tightly they were nearly as pales as his skin tone. “How’re you feeling about opening day?”

“I’ll feel better when I know who’ll be behind the plate,” said Castiel dryly and immediately regretted it as Winchester scowled and ran a hand through his short, spiked brown hair.

“Nothing to worry about there,” Winchester replied. “You’ll be pitching to me in the bullpen and Bass for the game. I don’t even know why I’m looking at this shit, I should be studying up on what’s-his-name, Duggey or some shit, the guy the Twins are starting tomorrow. That’s the last game I’ll be playing this season.”

“That’s up to you, I suppose,” Castiel shrugged, settling into an empty chair across the aisle from Dean. “Play well tomorrow, you might be facing Teheran on Monday. Play badly, yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Of course, why didn’t I think of that,” said Winchester sarcastically. “It’s so fucking easy, I just have to play _well._ Thanks for those words of wisdom, Novak, good to know it’s been that simple these past fifteen fucking years, I can’t believe I missed it.”

“Uncalled for,” Castiel met Winchester’s burst of temper calmly, as Winchester had so often met Castiel’s fits of pique with steadiness. “Yes, what every other player on the field does matters, and luck plays a factor, but if you get in your own head about this you’ll only make it worse. You played fine during spring training. Why is tomorrow different? Why is the 4th different?”

“They’re different because they _matter_ ,” Dean said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “In spring training it was just Bobby doing the kind of shit he’s always done – telling me I was good enough, pushing me, trying to get me to do my best – but of course he was _wrong_ , just like he’s always been wrong. Nothing I did on the field was going to convince Turner, much less Milton, that I should be playing. Heck, I was more worried that I’d fuck up so badly that they’d terminate my bullpen contract. So what the fuck am I even doing here? I gave up on this bullshit dream like five fucking years ago.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Castiel.

“The _fuck_ you know, Novak?” snapped Dean.

“If you’d given up on the dream of playing in the bigs, you wouldn’t be stressed out about tomorrow,” Castiel replied. “If you’d given up hope, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’ve been pitching to you for six weeks, Winchester. You’re a good enough defensive player for any club in the game. As to the offensive play...well, you’ve been hot. I’ve seen your record, and you probably won’t stay hot. That’s the game. My [batting average](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batting_average) is a .126. No one cares.”

“You’re the _pitcher_ , no one expects you to hit shit,” said Dean, rolling his eyes.

“Your career average is a .191, Dean; Bass’ is a .214,” explained Castiel patiently. “Neither of you is going to bring the house down. I doubt that’s what Turner is looking for tomorrow. You’ve got a history of choking. If you go out there and prove you’re not going to psych yourself out and lose your shit, they’ll choose you even if you swing into a [golden sombrero](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_sombrero). Which you won’t, by the way, strikeouts aren’t your problem, you go wrong because you tense up, shorten your stroke and foul-tip everything into the seats behind the dugout.”

Dean laughed humorlessly. “What, you been studying up on me?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. Dean kept chuckling to himself as if he were in on some bizarre, inexplicable joke. “If it were up to me, you and Henriksen would be the only catchers on this flight.” With a cough, Dean choked on his laughter, hacking into a hand he hastily raised to cover his mouth. “You okay?”

“You want me to be your catcher?” asked Dean in strangled tones.

“I—”

“ _You_ want _me_ to be your catcher!” Dean repeated, interrupting him.

“And I told Singer so,” confirmed Castiel. “More than once.” Catching his breath, Dean wiped his lips with the back of his hand and stared at Castiel. Some color returned to his cheeks, and in the dimly lit cabin Castiel noticed as he never had before that Dean’s eyes were brilliantly green, beautifully so. “You’re a great catcher, Dean.”

“You’re alright, uh...Castiel...” Dean said, breaking off their gaze.

“God, stop,” said Castiel, barking a laugh. A defensive look came to Dean’s face. “My mom calls me Castiel. Milton calls me Castiel. Call me Cassie, or Cas, _please_.”

“Cas,” echoed Dean experimentally. He took a deep breath, let it go, and looked calmer than Castiel had seen him all day. “Thanks, Cas. You gonna watch tomorrow’s game?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” confirmed Castiel.

Rising, Castiel returned to his seat. He’d done what he could. The rest was up to Dean.

Castiel gave up on trying to make himself think of the catcher as Winchester.

* * *

Both Dean and Bass were at the preparatory meeting the next day. After, Dean went directly from Singer’s office to the locker rooms to get ready, only an hour and a half left for him to review the game plan, stretch, take batting practice, gear up, and compare notes with Singer and Tran. Every time Castiel caught a glimpse of him, he looked composed. Castiel held out hope that Dean would hold it together and impress Turner. In no time, the team was in the dugout, the players were taking the field, and the first inning was underway.

The game against the Twins was hard to watch. Judging by the way Tran pitched, he’d devoted all of his copious energy to preparing for the game that _counted_ on the 6 th and hadn’t spared a thought to prepare for his last spring training game. Just as obvious to Castiel, though, and surely to Singer and Turner as well, was that Dean had _not_ skimped similarly. Dean tried to call a good game. If not for Tran [shaking him off](https://www.reddit.com/r/explainlikeimfive/comments/25zn63/eli5why_do_catchers_in_baseball_give_the_pitchers/) constantly, pushing Dean to pitch as Tran wanted instead of as Dean thought they should, maybe Tran wouldn’t have allowed six runs in five innings. There was no way to know, but Castiel saw enough to feel confident. Dean could do this. Even better, he managed one hit in his four at bats, a [bloop single](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball_\(B\)#blooper) to right. As Dean didn’t hesitate to point out when Castiel congratulated him, it was a fluke. If the Twins’ right fielder had done any preparation on Dean, he’d never have been [playing so deep](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baseball_positioning) and he’d have caught the hit easily. Castiel wasn’t the only one to point out to Dean that it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, the stats said that Dean had gotten a hit, that he’d gotten on base, that he’d done his part to help the team play well. It was, for Dean, a great game.

Going into the last spring training game on April 2nd, Castiel’s anticipation ran high. Dean had played well. If Bass blew it, the decision for management was easy. Though he felt bad about it, Castiel hoped Bass would crash and burn.

 _I want Dean_. The thought was prominent every time he glanced at the anxious catcher as Dean paced the dugout throughout the game. Dean watched with intense concentration, impervious to all attempts to engage in conversation or analysis, and completely ignored a commentator who tried to interview him – not a vote in his favor, Castiel thought nervously, all players were expected to play nice with the media.

Bass didn’t blow it.

Reidy’s pitching helped; the veteran had spent years in the American League and was more familiar with the Twins players than Tran was. Bass appeared as prepared as Dean had, and between them, they used every trick in the book to make up for Reidy’s age-slowed fastball, interspersing off-speed pitches expertly, always keeping the Twins players guessing what was coming next. The hitters had gotten cocky the previous day; they swung into every pitching trap that Reidy and Bass concocted. Some of their strike three swings were so bad they were comical. The only way Bass went wrong was that he managed a couple swings nearly as embarrassing, and his only time on base was earned on a walk.

By the end of the game, Castiel honestly had no idea which man would make the team.

As soon as the game was over Dean disappeared into the locker rooms, not even waiting for the teams to shake hands over the Nationals victory.

Though he exerted himself little, Castiel lingered in the locker rooms after the game, hoping for an announcement of Turner’s decision before they boarded the plane to Atlanta that night. It was about a half hour after the end of the game – most of the players were still cooling down, showering, changing – when Singer stuck his head into the locker room.

“Bass,” he called. “Winchester!” The catcher, fresh changed into civvies, stepped up with his usual youthful smile, innocent and kind of dopey. Dean didn’t appear, though. “Has anyone seen Winchester?”

“I think he’s trying to drown himself,” called Milligan, laughing.

“Maybe he dropped the soap,” Walker said suggestively, earning a few raunchy laughs and a number of disgusted looks.

“Stuff it, Walker,” snapped Lafitte, who had worked the bullpen for the game. “Dean’s in the shower, coach.”

“I’ll get him,” Castiel offered. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed to the shower rooms. Open stalls afforded little privacy. Castiel followed the burst of steam and sounds of running water to one of the back stalls where Dean stood, skin slick and shimmery with water that ran over every curve of his body. He stood under the flow, eyes closed as he faced the shower head, looking for all the world like Milligan had hit the nail on the head when he joked that Dean was trying to drown himself. Thick flows sluiced over Dean’s head, matting his hair dark to his scalp, streamed down his powerful shoulders and down the divot of his spine. A flow curled around his waist and the stream split to curve around his shapely ass and along his crack. His age showed; there was spare fat at his waist and along his thighs, and the flesh along the base of his arms sagged when he raised and lowered his arms, yet he was still beautiful to watch and his backside, thighs and calves were fucking _perfect_. Castiel’s cock stirred with interest.

_Oh...my..._

Castiel could count on one hand the number of people he’d ever been attracted to physically other than his brother: two men, one woman, and even then he hadn’t been sure. _Now_ , he was sure, though shocked. All he could do was stare.

“Novak, we need to send a rescue mission?” An unidentifiable voice shouted into the steamy room, reverberating off the tiled walls. Castiel started; Dean squawked and jumped around. His front was only a little less impressive than his front, muscles solid if not toned, limp, pale cock dangling between his legs, hot water leaving angry red lines over his the light skin of his chest.

“Singer wants to talk to you,” Castiel said abruptly and turned away before he could embarrass them both further.

“How long were you...fuck, he wants to talk to me _now_?” The squeak of the faucets was followed by the water going silent, the rustle of cloth, and Dean joined Castiel in the walkway between the shower stalls, a thick white towel wrapped snugly around his waist. “Any clues?” _Other than my erection?_ Castiel ruthlessly repressed his dirty thoughts and shook his head. “It’s going to be Bass. You know that, right? You saw him today.”

“Tran pitched poorly yesterday,” Castiel said. “That’s not your fault.” Dean answered with a grunt and they walked together out to the locker rooms. Without giving Dean a chance to put clothes on, Singer gestured him over and led both men to the dubious privacy of the unused far corner of the locker room. The conversation was brief and though Castiel – and nearly everyone else in the locker room – watched closely, he could get no hints. Bass and Dean looked equally impassive, Singer was serious, his voice audible only as a quiet rumble. After a few minutes, he looked at each of them in turn. Bass nodded slowly, lips curled in a troubled smile. Dean grimaced and refused to meet Singer’s gaze, staring at the ground and his bare feet.

“Well, get a move on, idjits,” snapped Singer loudly. “And the rest of you, you’ve got bags to pack. Flight’s at 8 PM. Go home, kiss your wives, grab your shit and get to the airports.”

Bass heeded the instructions immediately, already ready to go, and though others tried to linger, bombarding Singer with questions, he sent them all on their way gruffly. As Castiel walked out, delaying as long as he could, he glanced back to see Dean alone, changing into a pair of loose jeans and a t-shirt, the last person left in the locker room. Singer stood next to the door, arms crossed sternly as he herded everyone out.

“You too, Novak,” he said a bit more gently.

“Who is the catcher?” Castiel asked as soon as the door closed behind the last other person in the room.

“Who do you think?” asked Singer.

“Bass,” Castiel said softly. He didn’t want to believe it, but... Dean barked a laugh. Castiel turned to see him approaching with a flannel shirt unbuttoned over his t-shirt and a duffel bag peaking over his shoulder from where it was slung across his back.

“See? Even Cas knows you made the wrong choice,” said Dean, self-deprecation thick in his voice.

“Wait, it’s you?” gasped Castiel. Dean nodded, cheeks flushed. _No, that’s not the lingering heat from his shower. He’s actually blushing._ _That shouldn’t be adorable._ “That’s fantastic, Dean!” Dean went even more red. _But it’s utterly adorable._

“Glad you think so,” Singer said. “Get your things packed, Dean, it’s going to be a long season.”

“Tell Milton to expect a call from Sam,” said Dean. His tone was strangely flat and distant. Castiel felt the sudden and unexpectedly strong desire to give him a reassuring hug.

“Sure thing,” said Singer. “Tell that idjit to gimme a buzz, too. I had to hear from _you_ that he was engaged. He at least owed me that much.”

“I’ll tell him you said so,” Dean donned a false smile. “Don’t worry, Bobby, I’m sure you’ll get an invitation.”

Without another word, Dean brushed by Castiel and out the door. Castiel followed and paced him down the hall towards the parking lot. From somewhere else among the network of tunnels, Castiel could hear the indistinct echoes of a female voice – Milton, it had to be – speaking into a microphone. The post-game press conference was still going, Milton fielding questions from the media and making her final announcements on the roster before Opening Day. The halls were deserted despite the reverberating noise and Dean and Castiel walked in silence together. At the parking lot entrance, Dean stopped and turned to Castiel.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you on the plane,” he said. “Meet tomorrow at noon to go over the game plan for Monday?”

“Sounds good, Dean,” Castiel replied seriously. On impulse, he held out his hand and Dean took it, surprise obvious. His hands were big, strong, calloused, much as Castiel’s own were, worn from constant use. “I’m glad it’s you, Dean.”

“Thanks, Cas,” said Dean weakly. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Castiel replied more warmly than he meant to. “I’m sure you never will.”

Dean blinked at him, expression unreadable, tore his hands free and walked rapidly away. Wondering what had possessed him to say that, Castiel made his way to his own car, pulling his cell phone out as he did to check the time and see how long he had before he had to be at the airport. His bags were already packed and in the trunk, he could go straight to the flight, but it’d be nice to have a few more minutes at home first. The instant his screen lit up, he saw he had a text message. Frowning, he flicked through to see what Jimmy had said.

_Jimmy (4:56 PM): Heard that your game is over. You’re flying out of Washington tonight, right? Do you want to get dinner tomorrow?_

_Jimmy (5:02 PM): Come on Cassie please. It doesn’t have to be like this. It’s just dinner._

_Jimmy (5:08 PM): How many times are you going to make me say I’m sorry?_

_A few more, brother. Just a few more. I don’t help anyone when I stay mad. What’s done is done. I only lost you because I decided I was done. If I could only keep my damn temper, if I could only let it go...but damn, it hurts so much whenever I think about you, whenever I see you, whenever I remember that you aren’t mine any longer._

_Castiel (5:21 PM): Sure. Dinner. You pick the place. I’ll see you at 8 tomorrow._

_Jimmy (5:22 PM): I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a safe flight, Cassie._

_Castiel (5:23 PM): Thanks, Jimmy._

_Castiel (5:26 PM): I miss you._

_Castiel (5:30 PM): I’m sorry, too._

Before he could see any reply Jimmy might send, he switched his phone to airplane mode.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel’s alarm went off at 8 the next morning. His eyes flew open, he reached out to turn the alarm off and sat up, slumped on the edge of the bed. With a few flicks, he turned on his wireless internet to check his e-mail. He was meeting with Dean at noon, and it was likely that Singer wanted to see him as well. Sure enough, as soon as his phone had signal again it pinged with messages. Turner wanted to talk to him at 10, Singer at 11. There was a single text from Jimmy and Castiel’s finger hovered over the screen as he debated opening it.

_I told him I would meet up with him. I told him I missed him, told him I was sorry. What the fuck was I thinking?_

_Jimmy (Yesterday, 7:02 PM): I was thinking Flip Burger. They’re kinda overrated but tasty. 1587 Howell Mill Road 30318. If that works for you I can contact them and make sure we have some privacy. They won’t be busy at 8 on a Sunday anyway._

That was it. No acknowledgement of Castiel’s regret or his apologies. Part of Castiel hurt at the absence, anger simmering that Jimmy wouldn’t even acknowledge the olive branch that Castiel had offered. He knew his brother better than that, though. He could picture it clearly, Jimmy sitting in his home in Atlanta and holding his phone, starting and deleting text after text as he tried to figure out what to say. It couldn’t be a coincidence that over an hour passed between Castiel’s texts and Jimmy’s reply.

 _I was thinking that I owed him the truth. I was thinking that I_ was _sorry, I_ am _sorry. I was thinking that I miss him like half of me is missing all the time and I can’t find it no matter how hard I look._

_That doesn’t mean that telling him was a good idea._

_Castiel (8:06 AM): That sounds great Jimmy. See you tonight._

Tossing the phone on to the nightstand of the tastefully appointed hotel room, he dropped his head into his hands. The prospect of seeing his brother again was devastatingly appealing. Now that he’d permitted himself to let go of his anger, every other feeling he nursed towards Jimmy resurfaced. Their separation felt endless even though they’d played spring training games. It seemed like the time should have changed Jimmy even though Castiel knew intellectually that it had only been a few months. Jimmy had looked happier, smiling, eyes twinkling in the Florida sunshine. His play had been more relaxed and, judging by the way his uniform fit, Jimmy had gained a few pounds of muscle. Jimmy had looked even more gorgeous than he had before they split. He was flourishing now that he wasn’t living in Castiel’s shadow.

_He was right. We’re better off apart. Or at least, he’s better off with us apart, and isn’t that what matters?_

_No! What about what I need? What about what I want? All this hurt, all this stress, all of it has bounced right off him, while I’ve been alone._

The thoughts kept coming, undeterrable, as Castiel went about his morning: brushing his teeth, shaving, taking a shower, getting dressed, grabbing a modest plate of continental breakfast. The lobby was scattered with other players getting ready for their last off day before the start of the season. Lafitte and Henriksen sat together at a table; Lafitte gave Castiel a friendly smile and waved him over but Henriksen scowled and Castiel gave them a casual nod as if he’d not understood the invitation and found a place on his own.

_I’m so used to treating Jimmy as my exclusive property that I can’t even tell any longer when I’m being selfish._

Food was flavorless in his mouth; he chewed chunks of melon mechanically, drank some orange juice and milk, dug in to mediocre sausage and runny eggs. There was a restaurant, Lord knew he could afford something tastier, but it was too much trouble. All he could think about was Jimmy, all the times they’d spent together, all the things they’d done side by side, all the times he’d been able to make his brother glow with pleasure and satisfaction.

 _I didn’t tell him I still want him. That’s probably a good thing_.

Their moments of intimacy blurred together, so numerous had they been over the years, but he some stood out vividly. The first time was always particularly prominent for Castiel, coming as it did after years of what Castiel had thought was unrequited desire. Pontiac High had just won the Illinois State Championships. Castiel had pitched the last game, Jimmy had been the catcher, and they were both so high on the excitement. Jimmy had been seeing some girl, Castiel couldn’t even remember her name though it wasn’t that many years ago, and it had near broken Castiel’s heart but he’d kept his mouth shut. Just because Castiel was broken and had never wanted anything else didn’t mean he had to drag Jimmy down with him. Most days, he could keep quiet and cope with his feelings alone, but after the win Jimmy was grinning, he was flushed with exertion and excitement, he was laughing at every little thing that happened, his hair was a disheveled mess after sweat had matted it beneath his helmet. The drive home had passed in an instant, their parents in the front quietly pleased, them in the backseat, Jimmy staring at him with delight the whole time. Castiel was captivated, so much so it frightened him. _This is wrong, he’s my brother, I shouldn’t feel this way, I shouldn’t be hard, mom and dad are two fricken feet away, it’s just the high of the game..._

 _...but God is he beautiful._ It was late when they got home. Their mother insisted they’d spend the whole next day celebrating and so should spend the night resting and recovering. They pretended to agree to that while secretly making plans to go to a party some of the other players were planning. Castiel didn’t want to go, but Jimmy did and that was more important. They retreated to their room and Jimmy was so excited his hands trembled on the buttons of his uniform as he removed it. Watching him, something in Castiel finally snapped, he closed the space between them, he undid the buttons, stared at each intently as his fingers fumbled, and when he dared to look up at Jimmy’s face...

 _Flushed skin, parted lips, quick breaths, I can feel his heart pounding through the fabric of his jersey. That’s not the exhilaration of the win, is it? It’s something else, it has to be something else_.

 _“Cassie,” Jimmy whispered, and Castiel knew he’d remember hearing Jimmy’s voice saying his name just like that for the rest of his life_.

He hadn’t been wrong. Instead of going to the party, Jimmy had spent the night sobbing Castiel’s name as they’d made out in the shower, jerked each other off on Jimmy’s bed, sucked each other to orgasm on the floor. It was well past midnight when Castiel draped his exhausted brother in a desk chair, slicked his fingers with spit and found Jimmy’s prostate for the first time. He made Jimmy beg before giving him that pleasure for the second time, made Jimmy agree to dump his girlfriend before giving him that pleasure for the third time, and Jimmy had come swearing that he’d be Castiel’s forever, no one else, never anyone else.

 _I love you, Cassie, I’ve always loved you, I’ll always love you, thought you didn’t want this, thought you didn’t want me, oh_ fuck _that feels so good, so good, so good, I want you to fuck me, Cassie, want you to fill me, I’ve dreamed of it so many times, please..._

A shudder pulled Castiel out of his memories, a tear splashed onto the table. Shocked, Castiel jerked his head up and looked around, wiping his face surreptitiously. No one was paying attention. At least he wasn’t hard. In light of the past six months, the memories hurt too much to be arousing. He still had a few bites of breakfast left but the food tasted like ash. With a sigh, he threw his garbage away, left the dishes for the staff to wash and went to the hotel gym to do some stretches. He was supposed to take the day off from physical exertion but he had another hour before his meeting with Singer and he could think of way to waste the time that didn’t involve stewing in memories.

_I wonder if he’s seeing someone._

Sometimes, their guilt that what they did together was wrong had overcome their feelings for each other. Sometimes, they’d split up for a while, mutually agreed it was for the better. Sometimes, they’d gone on dates with other people, even slept with other people. It never worked. For Castiel, it always came back to a simplest _they’re not Jimmy_. Jimmy had told Castiel that he felt the same way. Except...

_…well, clearly that was bullshit. Forever isn’t worth what it used to be._

Castiel took out his anger on the hotel gym’s meager selection of weight machines.

 _Whatever I do, I’ve gotta keep my cool tonight. It’s too public, it’s too close to the season, and we’re_ not _together._

Castiel was sweating from exertion by the time he got to the meeting with Singer. His flushed, disheveled appearance betrayed that he’d been working out and earned him a quirked eyebrow from the bluff man, Singer’s broad face spread in a disapproving frown beneath the Nationals cap that he hardly ever removed, but Singer didn’t say anything. Castiel was grateful. He wasn’t an idiot, he hadn’t done anything that would endanger or strain himself, and the activity had helped. Concentrating on his meeting with Singer helped the time pass quickly, ditto his meeting with Turner, and then it was time for him to meet up with Dean. Dean’s hotel room proved to be virtually identical to Castiel’s, chunky furniture in dark woods accented with insipid pastels, except it was several floors down and the framed picture over the king sized bed was of a painted ocean-scape instead of a photograph of the Atlanta skyline. The only incongruous element in the room was Dean himself. He seemed ill at ease and the only areas he appeared to have used were the desk, the chair, and the sofa, which was heaped with pillows and blankets. He’d obviously slept on it.

“Alright, I got everything here,” said Dean as soon as he’d shown Castiel in. The desk was strewn with papers, the binder open to the probable first hitter for the game, colored post it notes marking various pages throughout the book. He took a deep breath and let it burst out as he gathered himself. “Before we get started, I wanted to let you know: this isn’t going to last.”

“Dean—”

“No, listen to me. I don’t care what the fuck you think you know about my career or my family or my skills,” Dean continued, fiddling with the piles on the desk rather than meeting Castiel’s gaze. “No one knows my career better than I do. This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten hot and things have looked promising. It never lasts. Believe it or not, I’m cool with that – I expect it – and when it happens I’ll end up down in the minors, because they gave my bullpen job to Benny – Lafitte, you know. You’re, uh, cerebral. You get stuck in your own head. I get that spring was tough for you but I hope you see now that there are loads catchers you can work well with, not just your brother, not just me. So when I get sent down, I want you to be prepared, okay? You’ll probably end up with Bass then, or maybe Henriksen. Don’t worry, if it looks like it’s gonna be Gallagher I’ll find him in Triple A and break his kneecaps for you.”

“Dean!”

“What?” Dean broke into a slow grin. “Okay, I’ll only break one. Better?” Castiel laughed helplessly. “See? You’ll be fine.” The twinkle in his eye contradicted the bleak picture he painted of himself and his future. _How is this talented player so used to thinking of himself as valueless that he not only takes it for granted that he’ll fail, but he also easily pretends that it doesn’t bother him? Or worse – maybe it genuinely doesn’t bother him_. _I don’t want another catcher. I want him. The more we talk, the more he says shit like that, the more I want it to be him_.

“I understand,” Castiel said with mock solemnity. “I promise, my expectations are low.” _I only expect you to be my catcher all season, I only expect you to allow fewer than a dozen_ _pass balls, I only expect you to hit two hundred, I only expect us to win twenty games. You know, modest, reasonable things. You’re going to be fine. We’re going to be fine._

“Glad we’ve got that cleared up,” Dean said, nodding a single time decisively. “None of that helps us with tomorrow – I figure you’re stuck with me at least through April – so let’s get going on this. Your biggest problem is probably Markakis. Fast balls don’t scare him much, he’s seen the best pitching in the game for years, and he was hot all through the spring. Here’s what I’m thinking for dealing with him...”

Dean leaned over the table to his laptop, clicking on the “play” button for a video he’d queued up. Judging by how organized and prepared he was, he’d spent all morning prepping for this meeting. Despite his nonchalant attitude, despite his prognostications of disaster, Dean’s performance was as always exemplary. His working style wasn’t identical to Jimmy’s, but Castiel appreciated that Dean didn’t beat around the bush, he didn’t shy away from saying exactly what he thought, and he didn’t pull any punches just because Castiel was the team ace. Dean wasn’t awed by Castiel’s pitching skill. Speaking with him wasn’t like preparing with Jimmy, who usually deferred to Castiel’s opinion; it wasn’t like preparing with Henriksen, who approached every dialog as an argument waiting to happen and sneered like he thought Castiel was going to be a petulant brat; it wasn’t like preparing with Bass or Gallagher or any of the younger catchers Milton had run by him, all of whom acted like Castiel was the boss. Working with Dean most closely resembled the times when Castiel had prepped with Singer: someone older, more experienced, more knowledgeable, someone who’d seen it all and was over all the bullshit. Though Dean and Castiel worked for hours, though much of what they went over were things Castiel already knew, his attention never wavered, his thoughts only rarely strayed to Jimmy, and it was mid-afternoon before Castiel realized that he felt good, he felt _whole_. When he worked with Dean, the part of him missing since Jimmy had left didn’t feel absent. The prospect of going out on the field with Dean as his second didn’t leave him feeling sick and abandoned. Instead, he felt heartened and confident and ready. When they were together, the hole in him was gone. Dean filled it so neatly and so quietly that Castiel hadn’t even noticed before, he’d just felt comfortable.

_When he’s with me..._

“Alright, let’s take a break,” Dean said, leaning back from the table as somewhere nearby church bells tolled 6 PM. “We’re gonna end up going over all this again with Bobby tomorrow morning, no need to go totally crazy.”

_...I feel like I can face anything, anyone._

“Do you want to join me for dinner?” Castiel asked abruptly. Dean’s mouth dropped open and he blinked, his cheeks slowly taking on a pink tinge beneath the smattering of freckles. “Forgive me, that was unclear. My brother Jimmy is on the Braves and we’re getting a meal tonight. It’s nothing fancy, just burgers, but I was thinking – you’re a catcher, he’s a catcher, you might get along well and...” Castiel took a deep breath in the face of the perturbed look on Dean’s face and forced himself to stop. At least the blush had faded from Dean’s face, if it had even been there in the first place. There was no reason Dean should show embarrassment at a dinner invitation. _Unless_ …Castiel quelled the ideas trying to distract him. _If Dean is there, maybe I’ll feel functional. If Dean is there, at least I won’t be alone with Jimmy. If Dean is there, I might be able to trust myself._ “Your company would be appreciated.” Dean didn’t need to know all the details. He didn’t even need to know most of the details. Briefly, Dean’s face darkened, his brow furrowed, and then he barked a laugh.

“Cas, man, for a moment there I thought you were trying to set me up with your brother,” Dean’s expression cleared and he gave Castiel a suggestive wink that, unexpectedly, caused a flush of heat in Castiel’s body.

_Oh, no, I’d rather keep you for myself. I never have been good at sharing...even with Jimmy..._

“Absolutely not,” Castiel said coldly, angry with himself for letting his attraction distract him. _Even if Dean were gay – which is possible, he isn’t married, though with a career like his that’s not unusual – we need to keep this simple. I’m his pitcher, he’s my catcher, period._ The goodwill faded from Dean’s face; instead he looked confused. “Things have been tense between Jimmy and I since the trade and I’d appreciate a third person there.”

“Oh, my bad, I get it now – I’m the post-break-up buffer,” Dean nodded. “Well, lucky for you I dig burgers. As a bonus, I’ll keep you from each other’s throats. Unless you _want_ to fight him, in which case I’ll cover and make sure Singer never finds out where the black eye came from.”

“You’ve never struck me as a violent person before,” observed Castiel. “Yet first you talk about knee-capping Gallagher, and now this...”

“It’s all a big act,” said Dean as if he were confiding a secret. “Honestly, I’m a fucking pushover.”

Castiel blinked, and in that instant an image came to him complete: Dean, naked as he’d been in the shower, streaked with sweat instead of hot water, wrists tied to the headboard of the bed Castiel had once shared with his brother, legs spread wide to show a vibrator buried in his ass, his muscles quivering in time to the stimulation to his channel and prostate, whispering desperate pleas for attention to his leaking, red cock. The gorgeous vision was gone as soon as it appeared and Castiel was back to watching the real thing as Dean broke off their conversation, rose and straightened the piles of papers spread over his desk.

“So, when’s the meal?” Dean’s low voice sent a shiver down Castiel’s spine as it transformed into sinful begging, _touch me, Cas, oh fuck, please, need you…_

“I arranged a taxi for 7:30,” said Castiel. It took all his willpower to keep his voice emotionless and repress the arousal pooling in his gut and thickening his cock.

“Great, I’ll see you then,” Dean said obliviously and turned his focus to his computer.

Thus dismissed, Castiel headed back to his own room, haunted by thoughts of Dean. _Well, at least I’m not thinking about Jimmy any longer_. He didn’t dare indulge, though. Going to dinner horny would be awkward, but jerking off thinking about Dean opened a whole different can of worms. Neither was acceptable, so he distracted himself as best he could reading through the profiles for the Braves players and imagining how the game might go.

* * *

Dean was punctual to the minute, which was more than could be said for the taxi. They made small talk – about the weather, about past times they’d each visited Atlanta, about anything but baseball, they’d both had their fill of that for the day – and soon enough they were at the restaurant. As soon as they were in the door, a maitre d’ greeted them and escorted them through the main cafeteria into a small side room whose door blended into the wall so well that it was nearly invisible. As the door opened, Jimmy rose, a broad, gentle smile on his beautiful face, a glow in his eyes, his arms already spreading to give Castiel a hug. Castiel saw the exact moment a warm greeting died in his throat as he realized Castiel wasn’t alone.

“Wow, shit, who’s your date, bro?” Jimmy said instead of whatever had been on the tip of his tongue. He dropped his arms to the sides and gave Dean an assessing look that got Castiel’s hackles up. “If I’d realized, I’d have brought one too.” Giving Dean a grin, Jimmy ran a hand through his hair in a gesture Castiel knew Jimmy thought made him look attractive.

“Not his date,” Dean said gruffly before Castiel could get a word in, holding out his hand to shake. Dean’s denial was a little too quick, his smile too welcoming. Jimmy took Dean’s hand and shook it firmly. “Dean Winchester – I guess you’d say I’m your replacement.”

_Holy hell..._

Jimmy had always been worse at hiding his emotions than Castiel, and in that instant Castiel read every flicker over his expression, shock, chagrin, distress, embarrassment, and finally the realization that Dean must have _absolutely no idea_ about the true nature of Castiel and Jimmy’s relationship. Breaking into a wry laugh, Jimmy took Dean’s hand and they shared a firm grip.

“Jimmy Novak. I remember now, you started that game in March. So, if you’re not Cassie’s date, does that means you’re available?” asked Jimmy, the twinkle in his eye captivating Castiel.

“Come on, lemme get a beer in me before you start hitting on me,” said Dean, winking.

“If you need beer goggles I already know I’m wasting my time,” Jimmy laughed.

_God, this is so easy for him, so easy for both of them. This is why Jimmy always found other people while I always ended up waiting and wishing we weren’t so damn hung up on each other, so damn hung up on being brothers._

“Naw,” Dean shook his head. “It’s not you, I’m just not comfortable with dudes mackin’ on me til I’ve had a few.”

“But then it’s fine?”

“Are you bisexual, Dean?” asked Castiel curiously. Dean’s head jerked around and he colored, looking away, and Castiel’s brain caught up with what he’d just said. “Sorry. That was inappropriate—”

“It’s all good,” said Dean, good humor gone. “And no, I’m not.” Disappointment made a pit in Castiel’s stomach and he schooled his face to neutrality, opening his menu and staring blankly at the burger options.

The awkward moment was covered by a waitress coming in to take their drink orders. When she finished, Jimmy filled the silence with small talk. Dean matched Jimmy effortlessly, and the two talked companionably while Castiel continued to stare at the menu and wished he had the least idea what to say. _This was a bad idea...Jimmy hasn’t even said hello to me...no, it’s better this way. What would we even say if it was just the two of us?_ Dean, to Castiel’s surprise, made an effort to include Castiel, unsubtly steering the conversation towards Castiel with polite questions about the twins’ childhood. It was an obvious effort to play peacemaker between the estranged brothers but Castiel appreciated it nonetheless. By the time their burgers arrived, things had grown more comfortable and despite the way Jimmy kept flirting, Castiel was glad he’d invited Dean along. _It was always going to be difficult at first. It might always be difficult from now on. But at least we’ve started to mend fences._ As the waitress set Jimmy’s meal before him, Jimmy shot Castiel a shy, apologetic smile and Castiel returned it with one of his own.

 _Sorry I broke your heart_ , _sorry I made you feel you couldn’t talk to me, sorry I’m so bad at fessing up that I brought a third person tonight without even warning you, sorry that I tangled our personal and professional lives so badly that you felt you couldn’t leave for a new team without also leaving me_. _Sorry I can’t bring myself to say any of this aloud._

“Holy _shit_ this is good,” Dean moaned around his first bite of cheeseburger. “And seriously, I’m a fucking connoisseur, I’ve had cheeseburgers at diners all over this fucking country.”

“You’ve played for a lot of teams?” asked Jimmy curiously.

“Can’t talk, stuffing my face,” Dean replied around a full mouth, eyes closing blissfully. Smiling, Castiel took a more modest bite of his own burger. It _was_ pretty tasty. “Yeah, I’ve been around,” Dean said, taking another bite before continuing. “My dad was in the majors. Mom died when we were young, so we – my brother and I – travelled with him, went to all his games for years. I got signed at 18, skipped college, and since then I’ve mostly bummed around the minors. Between that, a half-dozen cups of coffee and some winter ball, I’ve been all over. There was a point I’d been to every major league stadium in the country, but they’ve opened so many new ones the last decade…” He shrugged.

“Wait, Dean _Winchester_ – are you Sam’s brother?” asked Jimmy. Dean nodded. “That’s awesome! He’s my agent – Cassie and I were with Gabriel for years, but I decided to switch when I was negotiating with the Braves. He’s mentioned that his brother is a catcher. I didn’t put it together until now.”

 _More things he never told me…how could he not mention that he’d switch agents? Don’t dwell on it. Don’t think about it. It’s none of my business anyway. The relationship is only as unfixable as I choose to make it_.

“Sammy’s my agent too,” said Dean. “He doesn’t suck at it, but I wish he’d shut up about the fricken wedding when I’m calling about work.”

“Wedding?” Jimmy asked, surprised.

“Oh,” Dean took a bite and chewed slowly, glancing at each of the twins in turn. “I figured…it’s not a secret. Sammy and Gabe are engaged. Set to get hitched on November 12th.”

“Your brother is marrying Gabriel Coleman?” Castiel said incredulously. Jimmy burst into amazed laughter.

“I don’t get it either,” Dean said. “Sam never dated dudes before this, and now…well, whatever floats his boat I guess.”

“You never know,” Jimmy said. “I mean, there’s just no saying who a person will go for, no matter what their prior preferences were. There was this one time Cassie got the biggest crush on this chick, and…” Ignoring his burger, Jimmy gleefully recounted Castiel’s only attempt at a relationship with someone else, a woman named April who’d proved to be extremely manipulative. Castiel had never seen Jimmy angrier or more protective than when he found out some of the things April had done to him. It was an awkward story, yet Jimmy managed to make it light-hearted and funny, easily carrying the conversation while Dean and Castiel finished their hamburgers. By the end, Dean nursed his beer and laughed loudly and openly when Jimmy concluded. “…fricken psycho hose beast, but she got hers in the end. She was really hoping to get proposed to by an up-and-coming athlete and ride his coat-tails to wealth and luxury, so I introduced her to our teammate Marv, kinda short guy, big bag of dicks, looked like he had potential as a pitcher but he was all flashy tricks with no substance, anyone who knew shit about the game could see that. April never could be bothered to actually care about baseball. She got herself pregnant to secure him, they got married, and now he sells used cars – least, that’s what his Facebook says – and she’s stuck.”

“I didn’t know you were the one that introduced her to Marv,” said Castiel. _Jimmy got his revenge after all_.

“That’s ‘cause you never pull your head out of the sand, Cassie,” Jimmy replied, and though there was laughter to the words, Castiel felt the sting of the accusation. _Just like I didn’t realize you were unhappy, just like I’m selfish, just like I’m…_ The moment stretched out uncomfortably.

“Well, uh, if you’ll excuse me,” Dean broke the impasse, his beer mug clattering on the table top as he set it down. “Gotta…ya know…” Rising, he bolted out the door. Castiel stared until it slammed shut, cutting off his view of plaid flannel and worn denim and dark, short hair, and slowly turned to face his brother. Jimmy’s head was hanging, his shoulders slumped.

“That was out of line,” said Jimmy miserably. “I’m sorry, Cassie.”

“No, you’re right.” Though Castiel was looking toward his brother, he gaze went straight through him. “I’ve never been good at making friends. I didn’t need to be. I always had you.”

“Well, it looks like you have Dean now, that’s good,” Jimmy said, giving Castiel a wan smile. “He seems like a great guy.”

“He’s not your replacement, Jimmy. He’s my catcher.”

“You’re really not sleeping with him?” There was genuine surprise in Jimmy’s voice. He flicked his gaze consideringly towards where Dean had been sitting, as if he could still imagine the handsome man sitting there.

“I’m really not sleeping with him,” Castiel confirmed. _He_ is _appealing, but he’s not you. I’ve tried, I’ve really tried, not just with April, but it’s not the same_. _And anyway, he’s apparently straight._

_…but if there was anyone I might be able to make a go of a relationship with other than Jimmy…_

“Would you mind if I did?” asked Jimmy pensively.

“Jimmy!”

“What?” Jimmy shrugged, a defensive look on his face, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “He’s easy to talk to, smart and he must be one hell of a catcher to have impressed you. Bonus, he’s fricken hot and obviously flaming—” Castiel choked on a sip of water. “—so why shouldn’t I see if he’s interested? It’s not like you and I can…”

“No, we can’t,” agreed Castiel more firmly than necessary. Jimmy flushed and looked away. “What do you mean _obviously flaming_?” _If Dean was gay, wouldn’t everyone in the locker room know?_ Castiel had a flash of memory, Walker cracking a joke about Dean in the shower, other things that Walker in particular had said, all suggestive without outright giving anything away. _Maybe I wouldn’t know. After all, I have my head in the sand…_

“Trust me, Cassie. If he were straight he’d have gone on a diatribe after you asked him about being bi, started talking about all the chicks he’d been with, that kind of shit,” snorted Jimmy. “He practically admitted it when he said he wasn’t bi – all he said was _no_.”

“I thought closeted homosexuals defended their heterosexuality most vociferously,” said Castiel. “The fact that he was ‘chill’ suggests that he’s probably straight…?”

“Well, if you’re not interested it hardly matters,” Jimmy said. “If I’m right – would you mind if I hit that?”

 _Would I mind?_ An echo of his fantasy from earlier came back to him, a moment’s vision of Dean tied and begging, and he pushed it away.

“No,” said Castiel. “We’re not…it’s none of my business.” Castiel couldn’t have said which _we_ he meant. It hardly mattered. He had no claim on either man.

_I might be jealous. But who am I to be jealous of Dean? Who am I to be jealous of either of them? Just because I want them both…I can’t have Jimmy, for all the reasons I should never have had Jimmy. I shouldn’t have Dean, because we have to work together, because we’re on the same team, because no matter how much potential I have as a pitcher it’ll be ruined if anyone finds out I’m bisexual. Of course, that would happen to Jimmy too, but that’s his problem now, not mine…unless he’s right and he drags Dean out of the closet…then I’d lose both my catchers…_

The door opened as Jimmy began to speak and he snapped his mouth shut. Dean stepped in and muttered something incoherent as he realized the tension was no less thick than it had been when he left. Sticking his head back out, Castiel heard Dean say something to someone outside the room and a moment later a waitress came in with three beers.

“Alright,” said Dean, dropping into his chair. The waitress took the opportunity to take Castiel and Dean’s plates; Jimmy dug into the dinner he had neglected while storytelling. “So.” He took a drink of his beer. “Tell me about this Marv asshole.”

Jimmy laughed, took a sip, and launched into another anecdote. As soon as he was done, Dean returned with a story of his own, and the evening passed rapidly. The two men obviously hit it off, and Castiel tried to ignore the tightness in his chest.

 _Not jealous, definitely not jealous_.

On the taxi ride back, Dean was quiet; pensive, Castiel thought. Unable to think of anything to say, Castiel kept silent as well.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Dean said abruptly as the taxi stopped at a traffic light. The city was dark pierced by a myriad of lights in different colors – traffic lights, headlights, lit window displays. Castiel could hardly get a sense of the neighborhoods through which they passed though he’d been there multiple times before. “I, uh, I know you were primarily interested in having someone there to keep you and your brother from being alone together, but I appreciated it anyway. Your brother seems like a cool guy. If I’d had to spend this evening alone I think I’d be about this close to losing my mind.” He held up his hand, two fingers so close they brushed. “You and Jimmy both seem so calm. How the fuck do you do it?”

“Practice,” said Castiel, looking out the window with unfocused eyes. “First season was tough. I thought I was ready. I had big starts when I was in high school, big starts in college, big starts in the minor leagues. All of them were stressful at the time, and I every time I thought, _next time, I’ll be better prepared for this_. But I never was. I threw up before my first big league start. Having Jimmy around helped. I guess some people would have freaked out together, but instead he stayed calm for my sake, and I stayed calm for his sake, and it worked out well.” _The same way I feel when I’m with you_. “I’m a little nervous – this is only my fifth career start without Jimmy, and it’s only the second time I’ve started opening day – but it’s under control. Have you never made an opening day roster before?”

“Twice,” Dean replied, “in ‘07 and in ‘09, but I was a bench player both times – a defensive replacement at catcher, only expected to start every week or two to give the star a break. And both times I got bumped back down to the minors pretty quick. With only 25 slots, I wasn’t useful enough to keep around.”

“If you keep putting yourself down like that, I might start to believe you,” joked Castiel.

“Don’t take my word for it,” Dean said. “Singer’d tell you, or Sam, if he’s your agent—”

“No, Coleman is.”

“—or just ask Milton all the reasons she didn’t want me on the roster.”

“Opening Day is no different from any other game, Dean,” Castiel said. “We’ll take it one pitch at a time, one batter at a time, and one inning at a time. It’ll be over before you know it.”

* * *

From the instant they arrived at Turner Field the next day it was obvious that, despite the reassurance Castiel had given Dean the day before, there was nothing ordinary about Opening Day. Even hours before first pitch, the gate was mobbed with fans, some wearing Nationals gear even though they were in Atlanta, and as soon as the players exited from the luxurious bus that had brought them from the hotel the gathered crowd broke into cheers. People in the front rank strained to reach past the security guards, begging for autographs or free gear or selfies, and loud voices rose above the general cacophony, shouting everything from praise to nasty condemnation to marriage proposals. The gauntlet was, thankfully, fairly short, and within moments they were in the hallways beneath the stadium. Those who knew how to get to the Away locker rooms led those who were unfamiliar with Turner Field.

The players quickly settled in to the space that would be theirs for the next few days, each finding the locker labeled with their name and hurriedly unpacking their gear before changing into uniform. That done, the players split to meet with their respective coaches. The pitchers and catchers – even those, like Henriksen and Fitzgerald, who didn’t anticipate playing that day – went to speak with Singer. The meeting was a rehash of things they’d previously discussed, but the endless repetition of information was no less important in perfecting their play than the endless repetition of their pitches were. Just as their bodies would automatically reproduce movements they’d done countless times, their thoughts would effortlessly draw conclusions that they’d memorized and discussed over and over. No matter how much they prepared the game would offer plenty of unexpected moments but extensive preparation theoretically prevented the unexpected from being disastrous and derailing. Castiel had felt jittery the entire morning and, despite what he’d said about not being nervous, he hadn’t slept well. The familiar ritual of the morning meeting settled him. Sitting beside Dean, he wished he could do as much to ease the catcher. Dean listened to every word with the appearance of rapt attention but his leg jittered in his chair and his skin was pale despite his tan. It was all Castiel could do not to place an iron grip on Dean’s knee and hold him still.

 _Damn it, I have been nothing but patient with you but I_ need _you to keep your cool._

It was noon when the meeting adjourned and the players went from the least stressful part of the day to the most stressful part. Most games, there was not a full-team press conference before the first pitch. Normally, any given player might be cornered by a member of the media at any time when they were at the stadium and pre-game and post-game the locker room was open to anyone with a press badge, but only Turner had to give full daily press conferences. Opening Day was one of the few exceptions to that pattern and the entire team was led into a large room, the front of which was crowded with a stage sporting a backdrop with the team logo, a podium and a host of microphones. Before the stage was tightly packed with enough chairs for the entire team and support staff. The open floor before the stage was jammed with people, cameras, sound equipment, an impressive media circus.

As soon as the players walked in the press started shouting as if they hadn’t been briefed on the format for the interviews. It took Milton a couple minutes to quiet them, re-explain how the press conference would proceed, and start things off formally. One at a time, each player was called up to speak, even those who wouldn’t normally be expected to open their mouths. There wasn’t a man among them who hadn’t had extensive training on how to handle journalists, how to answer questions politely, how to not lose their temper no matter how rudely they were treated. Some of them had had many opportunities to use that training – Castiel had been interviewed by at least one person after every single start he’d made in the majors – and some of them rarely used it. For those joining the team as rookies, it was a particularly trying time. Alfie looked absolutely petrified as he stuttered over every answer, growing beet red when those questioning him smiled and laughed at his bashfulness and pressed him on his first time in the major leagues and tried to trap him into slipping and saying something he shouldn’t.

Castiel’s turn finally came and he walked up to the podium and stood before it with every semblance of calm.

_Whatever they ask…_

“Mr. Novak, how do you feel about being the Opening Day starter?”

“Mr. Novak, do you think the Nationals can manage a repeat 2015 and win the pennant again?”

“How do you feel about facing off against your brother’s team?”

“Are you satisfied with the selection of _Dean Winchester_ as your catcher?”

“If _you_ could have picked any catcher from those available, who would it have been?”

“Do you think you’re physically prepared for the rigors of the season?”

“Have you watched any footage of James Novak in spring training?”

“How do you feel your brother has been playing?”

“Some people are saying you could win 20 games this season; what’s your prediction?”

“Are you relieved that James Novak isn’t the Braves’ catcher this evening?”

Press conferences, and all media interactions, were surprisingly like playing baseball, or like going to war. The journalists tried to find the exact question, the perfect wording, to get past his guard, and his goal was to deflect, distract and avoid giving anything way while keeping his cool and striving to be honest without giving them anything they could pull out of context and use against him. His usual strategy was to be terse and brief. The team’s media advisors had okayed his approach it hadn’t generally worked well. Though Castiel avoided articles about himself and ignored fan sentiment as best he could, he knew he was seen as arrogant and aloof, disinterested in the public and above such petty things as being friendly. He had a fanbase anyway – he was too good a player not to – but he wasn’t a popular player, not like his brother had been, not like Milligan or Talley or Fitzgerald. There was no point in trying to change that now, nor in his heart did he want to. Being friendly with the media didn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t rip him down; he’d seen it happen to others. Thus, he stood before the blinking camera lights, shouting people and flashing bulbs and mouthed platitudes that he felt great, he had high hopes for the team but there was no way to know, that he was of course behind every choice that the coaches and managers made, and that he had every confidence that Dean would be as fine a catcher as his father had been. Each answer prompted more questions, but Milton restricted the press to ten minutes with him – which was double what they’d had with most players – and before he knew it Castiel was free to return to his seat.

Dean was up next. His face had gone a ghastly shade of yellow, his hands were clenched in fists and he took each step stiffly, knees locked, gaze fixed forward on nothing as he assumed his place before the hoard.

 _He looks like a deer in headlights_.

“Mr. Winchester, how does it feel to make an opening day roster at your age?”

“Mr. Winchester, how do you respond to commentators saying your best days are ten years behind you?”

“Do you feel your knees and hips will sustain the rigors of playing two to four games a week?”

Every question seemed to strike Dean like a blow. He winced and stammered gruffly through his answers, struggling to keep his cool, and the more off balance he grew the more the cameras clicked and blinked as photographers took his picture.

“Mr. Winchester, what do you think your father would say right now if he were alive?”

“If you continue hitting this season as you have throughout your career, do you anticipate remaining with the team, or will you be dropped to the minor leagues?”

“What are your thoughts on retirement, Mr. Winchester?”

Every question made Castiel angrier on Dean’s behalf. The press were routinely hurtful but their treatment of Dean was beyond the pale and Castiel had no idea why they were being so vicious. Journalists generally had no love for Castiel – he was only too happy to be blunt and rude to them when they bothered him – yet they were rarely actively cruel.

“Mr. Winchester, what do you say to those who suggest that you are only getting this opportunity thanks to your father’s long-standing friendship with Coach Singer?”

Castiel glanced at the pitching coach and was surprised by the raw fury on Singer’s features. With fifteen years on the mound and another twenty as a coach, Singer was usually a picture of calm self-control, professionalism, brilliance and beneath his jovial redneck exterior he had an unbreakable iron will. Thinking over their three years working together, Castiel didn’t think he’d ever seen the man angrier.

“Uh, you…um…you’d have to ask him that,” Dean answered lamely. “Next—”

“No, that’s enough,” snapped Singer, rising. All eyes and lenses turned towards him, flashbulbs going off on all sides. “If you got questions about why I made certain decisions, you ask me. You got questions for Turner or Milton, you ask them. You got question about Dean’s medical report, you ask the doctor. If you ain’t got no more questions for him about his own play in spring training and tonight, we’re done here.”

“Mr. Singer, will you answer the question, then?”

“You better believe I will,” Singer’s tone went ice cool but his eyes were dark pools, deadly enough to quiet every reporter who dared meet his gaze. “Dean Winchester ain’t John Winchester. He ain’t never gonna be John Winchester. Only an idjit expects this Winchester to hit like his papa did, but if you want a show, watch him catch the ball and you’ll see him do things John could only dreamed of. If a man jack of you had actually watched Dean play, you wouldn’t be pestering him with this bull, and don’t we all know it.”

“Mr. Singer—”

“Coach Singer—”

“Coach—”

“Next up is first baseman Gordon Walker,” interrupted Milton, taking the mike from Dean, who rose and fled to his chair beside Henriksen. Singer gave a glare to the press and then sat as well. With a confident, arrogant smirk, Walker rose and swaggered to the podium.

“I’m ready – and I don’t need a coach to make apologies for me, either,” Walker said dryly. The press exploded with overlapping questions and Castiel glanced at Dean in time to see him doing his best imitation of melting into his chair. He prayed that no one got a photo of such a large man making such an overt attempt to disappear; it was pitiful to see and would be heartbreaking in print, the moreso if Dean _did_ have a bad game.

_But he won’t. I know he won’t._

Castiel had to believe that.

When the press conference was finally done, there were two hours until game start and every player departed to engage in their personal pre-game rituals. Players were a superstitious lot and many had habits that they felt improved their play. Castiel was prepared to lay heavy odds that not a single behavior any of them did correlated to any improvement in play but reality hardly mattered. If the practices calmed unsteady nerves, it was worth it. They’d all be stepping out onto a field in front of 50,000 cheering, jeering fans and hundreds of thousands more watching the game live on television. If they couldn’t manage their nerves, they couldn’t play.

Castiel and Jimmy had, over the years, worked out a sure-fire relaxation strategy. Many a player burned off steam and tension by jerking off before play. Masturbation was a sure-fire way to chill out and relax, and coming to associate the burst of nerves with the soothing feeling of orgasm had enabled many a jittery player to cope. Given their relationship, Castiel and Jimmy had taken things a step further and had learned secluded spots in every stadium they’d ever been to where they could sneak off and exchange blow jobs. Though Castiel had mentally prepared himself that such would no longer be possible, a certain part of him hadn’t gotten the message. As he puttered around his locker, he tried to calm himself to no avail. His thoughts were filled with his brother, how it felt to have Jimmy’s lips around his cock, the way Jimmy’s eyes slid rapturously shut as he got off on getting Castiel off, the echo of every choked sound Jimmy made as the noises vibrated through Castiel’s sensitive flesh. His cock twitched with interest and when it became clear that he’d not be able to distract himself intellectually, he retreated to one of the private bathroom stalls provided to afford players discretion if they were hungover, had an upset stomach, or otherwise felt the need to seclude themselves. All but one of the stalls were already occupied. Judging by the smell, the one Castiel was in had recently been in use as well. Nose wrinkled in disgust, Castiel closed and locked the door and tried to get in the mood.

_This is ridiculous. I’m in a 3 foot by 3 foot cube occupied by a fricken toilet, trying to think of something to get off on. Jimmy is in the building. I could find him, ask him, and we could…_

_…no. Even if he’d say yes, which he shouldn’t, I can’t rely on him any longer. But oh, wouldn’t it be nice to think he’d still want to_ …

Lowering his pants, untucking his jersey, Castiel shifted his jockstrap, pulled out his cup, and snapped the elastic down beneath his half-hard cock. He spat onto his palm, wrapped a loose fist around himself and tried to tune out every distraction, settling his back against the stall door.

_Wouldn’t it be nice if Jimmy were here now, on his knees, cracking a joke about the smell, promising to make me feel so good._

They’d pleasured each other so many times that remembered sensation flooded Castiel’s head, dulled by time and pain but still vivid. His dampened grip slid easily over his length and he teased at himself until he was fully hardened, imagining Jimmy taunting him, imagining Jimmy sucking and kissing at the tip of his cock, teasing until pre-come leaked free. A faint moan ghosted through his lips and he rubbed a thumb over the sensitive slit, finding it responsive and wet. His length thickened between his fingers, filling his grip, and he stroked himself slowly, gently.

_That’s good, Cassie, I knew you could get hard for me, knew I’d get a good taste of you before we were done. Gonna fill my mouth with come? Gonna make me choke on it?_

“Oh, yeah…” Castiel murmured approvingly, curling his hand into a tight circle and letting his hips rolls into the grip, fucking into his hand instead of stroking.

_Jimmy’s so close, I could go find him, I know he’d help. He feels guilty about leaving, I bet he’d give me anything I ask short of coming back to the Nationals. I could hold the back of his head still, thrust down his throat until he gags, deny him any touch in return, make him put his cup back on while he’s hard and aching, make him wait until after the game before I finally give him satisfaction._

Each delicious image drove him higher. Eyes sliding shut, Castiel imagined how it would feel to fuck his brother’s face, to tell Jimmy what he was and wasn’t allowed, to watch Jimmy obey him despite how much he craved more.

_But I can’t rely on Jimmy anymore…I’ve got a new catcher now…_

Instantly, shockingly, the image of Jimmy was supplanted by Dean: Dean on his knees on the tile floor, Dean’s cock hard and leaking onto his uniform, Dean’s beautiful pink lips curled around Castiel’s erection, Dean’s green eyes narrowed and darkened by lust, Dean’s low, wrecked voice growling as he sucked Castiel down. Desire as strong as Castiel had ever felt for anyone other than Jimmy tore through him, violent in its heat and power, and he groaned and tightened his slick grip, fucked into his hand harder.

“Aren’t you a good boy,” Castiel growled to the empty stall, head full of the image of his new catcher. If Castiel got Dean on his knees, would he suck Castiel down? If Castiel clutched Dean’s head, dug his fingers into Dean’s scalp, forced Dean to take every inch of him, would Dean surrender or would he fight back? Would he open up wide or would he choke? Castiel had no idea, but _fuck_ did he want to find out, wanted to watch those beautiful eyes slide shut, wanted to soak in the pleasure of the wet heat of Dean’s mouth as he swallowed around Castiel. Bliss spiked as pressure in his skull, tingling along his limbs and his imagination possessed him completely. “Fuck, yeah…oh, Dean, fuck _yes_ …” With a guttural groan, his cock surged in his grip and his come splattered onto the toilet seat, one thick bead oozing long and slow towards the floor. He let out a shuttering breath and felt all his nerves release into the stale air of the bathroom stall.

 _Just what I needed_.

Cleaning himself up, Castiel got his cup back in place, adjusted his strap and pants until he was comfortable, washed his hands in the tiny private sink, stepped into the hall and was immediately confronted by a startled-looking Dean.

 _Damn, he’s even prettier than I was imagining_.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean said, shaking off his surprise. If Castiel’s appearance betrayed of what he’d been doing, what he’d been thinking, there was no evidence that Dean recognized the signs.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said with the self-possession that release had given him.

“Been lookin’ for you – Jo wants us to warm up together,” explained Dean. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Once his anticipation was dissipated by the warm glow of post-orgasm, the hours before the game passed in a flash, a flurry of stretches, warm ups, batting practice, pitching drill, everything that the finest kinesthesiologists could concoct to prepare vulnerable human bodies for the intense exertion of the game. The game started to the roar of the crowd as Julio Teheran threw out the first pitch of the Braves’ 2016 season and Castiel and Dean traded easy throws in the bullpen. The first few exchanges Dean was a tense wreck, but the longer they worked together – not throwing serious pitches, just lobbing the baseball back and forth like two friends playing catch in their backyard – the more Dean relaxed, until his smile could be seen through the lattice of his mask and his calm could be seen in the slouch of his shoulders, the snap of his elbow as he threw, the ease with which he dropped to his squat to catch and rose again for every return throw. When the call came to let them know that it was time to take the field, Castiel caught Dean’s eye and they shared a smile. There wasn’t a doubt in Castiel’s mind. They had this.

The first inning passed like a dream, three batters, three strikeouts. They returned to the dugout both high on the excitement of their strong start and the tone was set for the game. Castiel pitched as well as he ever had with Jimmy, as well as he had in his career. Every time Dean removed his mask, Castiel wanted to laugh at the bemused look on Dean’s face, as if he couldn’t believe how well things were going and was afraid to comment on it lest it prove to be a dream. Even with a [pitch count](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pitch_count) of only 90 limiting how many innings Turner would let him play, Castiel made it through six innings before he was switched out for Inias McMorran in the seventh.

In retrospect, he wasn’t sure if that was the best part. Getting a win was always great, but Castiel was in awe of how effortless it felt, overjoyed that when he realized in retrospect that he didn’t _once_ think of Jimmy while he was on the mound, gratified by the congratulations of his teammates, and amazed to be the recipient of a standing ovation from the Braves fans when he was pulled from the game. Any of those could have been the best part, or it might have been how progressively happier Dean looked, the excited pep talks Dean gave Castiel as they hastily reviewed their game plan for the next inning, the beaming pride that glowed from Singer’s face every time he glanced at Dean, so flagrant that Dean flushed and avoided looking at the pitching coach for the rest of the evening. Castiel suspected that if he asked Dean, the catcher would say that the best part of the game was the moment of stunned silence that overtook the entire stadium when Dean hit a hard [line drive](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball_\(L\)#line_drive) over the fences in right field. The hit scored the RBIs that pushed the Nationals into the lead. Dean jogged back into the dugout after his hit, tears in his eyes as he rode on the swelling crest of the cheers of Nationals fans and the derision of the Braves fans.

The game was so excellent that there was no one moment that Castiel could point to. He was thrilled for himself and delighted for Dean and completely vindicated in the faith he’d put in Dean over the past few weeks. It didn’t really matter which was best part. All that mattered was that they’d won the first game of the season, the team had worked as a cohesive whole in mid-season form, and at least for one game everything looked sunny and perfect.

161 more games to go.


	6. Chapter 6

 “So, how did it go?” asked Sam in place of a greeting when he answered Dean’s phone call.

“Either you didn’t watch the game, in which case I’ve got an asshole for a brother, or you’re pretending you didn’t watch the game, in which case I’ve still got an asshole for a brother,” said Dean, rolling his eyes. Most of the rest of the team were lingering by their lockers or at the post-game press conference, but with Singer’s blessing Dean had escaped, dodging the journalists and bolting down the hallway for privacy and safety before anyone could corner him and ask if his success had been a fluke. _Of course it was a fluke._ With everyone else still busy, he had the wide corridors to himself, his voice echoing against the concrete walls even though he wasn’t speaking loudly.

“I hate to break it to you, Dean, but I don’t watch every game you play in,” Sam’s eye roll was as obvious as Dean’s had been.

“It, uh, it went okay, I guess,” Dean shrugged. _Why_ would _Sam watch the game? He knows as well as I do that, if I play well, there’s no way it’s gonna last. He’s had a lifetime of watching me play like shit, so why bother tuning in to watch some more?_

“ ‘Okay, you guess?’ ” echoed Sam incredulously. “That was probably the best pro-game of your career!”

“So the bitch _did_ watch me play,” Dean smirked, trying to ignore what Sam had said. _Yes, it was good, and it will never be repeated._

“Don’t call me that, jerk,” Sam snapped. “You’re freaking out about this, aren’t you?”

“I am _not_ freaking out.” _I hit a fucking homerun, in the Majors, off one of the best pitchers in the game._ “You’re freaking out.” It was his first homerun in the big leagues. Security had tracked down the fan who retrieved it and negotiated to get the ball back in exchange for a jersey signed by the Nationals starting lineup, and once the trade was made he’d been presented with it as if it was supposed to mean something to him. He had it in the duffel he was taking home with him, could feel it knocking against his back every step he took.

Sam laughed. “Sure you’re not, that’s why you called me right after? You need a boyfriend, Dean, then you can bug him about this kind of thing and leave me in peace.”

_…Cas Novak stumbling out of the bathroom, cheeks flushed, uniform rumpled, breathing quick and shallow, eyes shimmering with wetness…_

_…Jimmy Novak, so similar to his brother yet so different, laughing, flirting so flagrantly that even Dean couldn’t pretend that wasn’t what was going on…_

_…way to be a creeper, Dean, they’re a decade younger than you, gorgeous and rich, a fucking universe out of your league, and they’re fricken siblings. Twins are the stuff of porno, not real life, that whole “incest” thing…_

_…and fuck, really,_ this _is what I think of when Sammy says I need to see someone?_

“Right, then, I’ll leave you alone,” Dean said, sounding angrier than he intended to.

“No, no, it’s okay, Dean,” Sam finally left off teasing, sincerity in every word. “You played great tonight. Don’t get into your head about it. Take the season one game at a time. You can do this.”

“Gonna tell me about the power of positive thinking next?” said Dean. “Maybe love will find a way to keep me from getting knee injuries. Crystal magic can make sure that I keep knockin’ it over the fence.”

“I didn’t say that,” Sam said. “Don’t be an asshole about this. You know thing’s’ll go better if you don’t psych yourself out. Do what you can, as long as you can, and don’t worry about what’s going to happen next time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled. A moment’s silence passed, and before it could stretch out, he heaved a sigh and added, “thanks, Sam. And thanks for watching.”

“Well, don’t expect me to see every game, but I _am_ your agent, need to keep an eye on the talent.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure I’m your highest priority,” snorted Dean.

“Big or small, I get a cut of every contract,” Sam joked. “The Novaks are paying for the wedding.”

“That’s one hell of an expensive wedding,” Dean laughed. “Never pictured you as a bridezilla.”

“Not me,” Sam joined in his laughter. “Gabe, though! Jesus Christ is he _picky_ – which reminds me, we need a tie-breaker on the cake.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to help with that?” asked Dean. “Gonna ship cake samples coast to coast?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Sam said more seriously. “But no – I wanted to put in a reservation early, you’ll be on the west coast in mid-June.”

_God, that sounds so far away and yet so damn close._

“Optimistic much?” Dean tried to sound upbeat but it was hard to pretend that he harbored the least hope that he’d still be in the majors in two and a half months.

_If I am still in the majors...I’d better make arrangements._

“I’ve been watching baseball for as long as I can remember, I know untapped potential when I see it,” Sam said seriously. Dean resisted the urge to tell him to shove it.

“I was untapped potential when I was 20,” Dean said, trying not to sound bitter. Failing. “Now I’m mostly definitely tapped, drained and wasted. But sure, if I’ve still got a job in June, I’ll be happy to eat cake with you.”

“It’s a date!”

They passed time in pleasant, meaningless conversation after that, catching up on friends and mutual acquaintances. With Sam working as an agent and Dean now a player again, they each constantly ran into people that the other knew. Professional baseball was a small world. People who had played with John Winchester when Sam and Dean were kids were now managers, coaches, and scouts; their children were now players or, as with Sam and Jo, peripherally involved in the business. Standing around waiting for the rest of the team to finish their post-game routines, escape the press, and assemble for the bus, Dean was happy to kill time talking with Sam. Despite all of Sam’s unsubtle reminders of the long season to go, Dean found talking to his brother comforting, calming, similar to the way he felt when he was working with Cas – and nearly identical to how he’d felt shooting the shit with Jimmy Novak, he reflected.

 _Going out with Cas is out of the question, even if he weren’t an ass. If he didn’t keep asking for my help with shit – if he hadn’t fricken asked me to dinner yesterday – I wouldn’t think he even tolerated me, much less thought of me as a friend. Fuck, I’m_ still _not sure if he actually likes me or if he just thinks I’m useful._

_Jimmy, on the other hand…_

_No. Dating someone is too dangerous. What was Sam thinking even suggesting it? If word got out I was gay…fuck, what would the press say?_ He didn’t want to think about it. Pushing the thought from his head, he focused on the task at hand. He’d made it through one game. He wasn’t slated to play in either of the other games in the Nats-Braves opening series, and as such he and Castiel would be heading back to Washington DC early to prepare there for their next game against the Marlins. Though he could only guess, Dean suspected he’d have only one start in that series as well, and probably two during the series after that – a four game set at home, once again against the Braves. Based on what Singer had told Dean, he’d probably start twice during that series, once for Cas, the other probably for Reidy since they’d worked together a couple times before. Even though it was only a week away, Dean found the prospect overwhelming.

 _One game at a time_.

Saying his farewells to Sam, Dean lowered his phone and hit the disconnect button. He stared at the screen, eyes unfocused, until it went dark. Finally, with a sigh, he turned it back on and flipped to his contacts list, scrolling until he found the one he needed. The entry was labeled _Douche Bag_ because, despite years of contact, despite having seen the man more than once and heard his smarmy British accent in his fucking nightmares, Dean had never learned the bastard’s name. He supposed he could have asked but he didn’t want to know. The only reason the son of a bitch was part of Dean’s life was because of John. For years, Dean had scrimped and saved to repay the debt that John had left behind, and the mysterious loan shark who haunted the seedy side of San Francisco’s illegal gambling community was the last of John’s baggage that Dean had left.

 _Except the alcoholism and soul-crushing inadequacy, but that’s a different kind of baggage. I can’t pay to make that go away_.

For the past decade, Dean hadn’t been able to pay enough to make Douche Bag go away, either, but if he could stay in the majors through this season and earn the full payout from the contract Sam had negotiated for Dean with the team, Dean would finally be done. Opening a text window, he typed out and sent a message.

_Dean (9:45 pm): I’ll be in San Diego on June 16 th through 19th and Los Angeles from June 20th to 22nd. If you can send someone south I can make a payment._

When he’d first started devoting his hard-earned money to dealing with what should never have been his responsibility, Dean had been angry. There had been so much to be upset about that first year after John died; the need to pay off a loan shark had been insult to injury. Now, Dean was merely resigned to it. All he had to do was hold on and not suck for another few months. Surely, even he could manage it.

_Douche Bag (9:47 pm): That’s good news Mr. Winchester. I’ll send someone. How much will you be paying?_

_Dean (9:48 PM): 50k._

_Douche Bag (9:50 PM): Hit the big times have we. Not borrowing from Peter to pay Paul I hope._

_Dean (9:52 PM): Fuck no._

_Dean (9:52 PM): It’s none of your fucking business where I get the money from._

_Dean (9:53 PM): I’ll have it all by the end of the summer._

_Douche Bag (9:55 PM): With interest._

Dean gritted his teeth and barely restrained himself from answering the taunt with anger. Of course there was interest. There was always interest. There was always more to pay.

_No. Not always. Soon, I’ll be done. Soon, I’ll be free. Or, at least, I’ll be free of Douche Bag. It’s something, anyway._

* * *

There was an endless amount to do and little downtime, which was ideal as far as Dean was concerned. Anything that kept him from thinking was great; when he’d been younger, he’d often turned to John’s favorite medicine and dealt with the stress by getting smashed. After his father died, the appeal of that approach had declined significantly, and it was relief that faced with the greatest challenge of his career, Dean wasn’t even tempted. Fuck, he was too tired every night to go out and get smashed. He was too old for this shit. Where once anxiety would keep him up for hours, especially before game nights, now he so exhausted that he passed out on Harvelle’s couch or in his hotel room before he had time to think. It was awesome.

The Nationals got off to a hot start. The Braves went down one-two-three in the first games of the season, and though the Marlins managed one win in three, their hard-fought victory wasn’t enough to slow down the Nationals momentum. Dean got another hit and a walk in his second start, Castiel earned his second win, and the excitement in the clubhouse after the win was palpable – ridiculously so, considering how little April baseball meant in the grand scheme of things. These games were practically pointless, which Dean found surprisingly comforting.

 _But every win matters_.

Sure, April ball wasn’t quite as pointless as September game with a [mathematically eliminated](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magic_number_\(sports\)) team – a situation with which Dean was depressingly familiar – but it was still pretty pointless.

 _They’re all watching you_.

Keeping busy also helped him avoid the press. From the time he was a kid and had told an interviewer that his dad was going to shove a bat up Keith Hernandez’ ass, Dean had never been good with the media. He’d learned too late to keep his mouth shut. Reporters _loved_ him; when they got him riled up they knew he’d supply the antagonistic copy on which they thrived, the kind of thing to rival when Cole Hamels called the Mets “choke artists.” When he was young, he’d been happy to provide them with fodder, especially if he’d had a couple drinks, and the results had been nothing but trouble. As he’d gotten older, he’d learned to shut up but it was too late. He had a reputation throughout the press corps as easy to rile up and the times he’d taken his ire out on the reporters guaranteed that the journalists showed him no quarter. Part of him dreaded how the coverage from Opening Day must have appeared. A few years ago, he would have watched it, reminded himself what a shit idea it was for him to be attempting to play in the majors, wallowed and gotten drunk, but he was older now, even if he wasn’t wiser, and he resisted the urge. Whatever they said, it’d be forgotten within days as they moved on to the next gaff, the next poor management decision, the next injury, the next arm-chair Monday-morning quarterbacking, the next embarrassing error or accidental face plant. With 30 teams in the major league, 25 players per team, uncountable support staff and managers and coaches, there were easily 1000 people for reporters to stalk. They didn’t need to pester him.

Why should they bother when they could pester Cas instead?

“Why do they keep asking me about Jimmy?” snarled Cas, throwing his mitt angrily down on the bench.

“Because he’s your brother?” suggested Dean. Dean had been spared the pre-game press conference for Cas’ second start against the Braves but Cas hadn’t been so lucky.

“How the fuck do they _think_ I feel starting a game against my twin brother for the first time? Oh, sure, I feel _fantastic_ about it, it’s going to be sunshine and puppy dogs, one big family reunion.” Every movement Cas took was aggressive and angry – the way he snapped on his hat, the way he moved things in his locker, the way he dug a baseball from his bag – and the look on his face was pure murder.

“If you let them see that you’re this angry about it, they’ll just keep asking,” Dean offered what little wisdom age had taught him.

“Gee, thanks, I missed that in Media 101,” said Cas acidly.

“Look, I played against Sammy a few times when he was considering being a player instead of going into the business end of the game,” said Dean. _Just have to calm him down. He’s no use to anyone like this_. “It sucked. And I get that this is hard for you – ‘cause he’s your twin, ‘cause you were on the same side for so long, ‘cause you’re so used to him being your catcher – and I bet it’s hard for him too, but you gotta let it go. He’s still your brother, Cas. His being on the Braves doesn’t change that.”

“I never thought of that,” Cas snapped with mocking wonder. “Thank fucking God I’ve got you here.”

Dean’s temper flared but he did his best to project an air of calm. “That’s true,” he said, every word measured. “Most people wouldn’t put up with your being a bitchy little princess over a few questions from the press, but fortunately I don’t give a shit if you’re an asshole.”

“You son of a bitch, how dare you—”

“ _Boys_ ,” interrupted a familiar female voice, and Dean jerked his head around to see that Jo had joined him and Novak in the locker room. “Whip ‘em out and measure or shut the fuck up. You’ve got a game to play tonight and you were supposed to be in my gym fifteen minutes ago.” Novak looked on the verge of protesting but thought better of it and snapped his mouth shut. The narrowed eyed, tight-lipped expression he assumed was presumably meant to look threatening, but instead merely looked sullen and petulant.

“Ready whenever you are,” agreed Dean, standing and straightening his uniform. His attempt at maintaining a façade covered how his heart raced with adrenaline and his hands shook slightly. After getting to know Novak, he’d begun to think that Novak’s initial standoffish aloofness had been a defense mechanism. Apparently not, though. Underneath the off-putting exterior which masked the young vulnerable man risen to fame too quickly for comfort, there was a third layer: an arrogant dick. _No wonder Jimmy wanted a trade. He and his brother are nothing alike_.

As they went through their warm up, Dean’s temper cooled. It made for a strange contrast, tension and nerves for the upcoming game on the one hand, ease and post-adrenaline-surge relaxation on the other. Novak was a cipher, his expression blank, but he did everything Jo instructed them to with his mouth compressed in concentration. Provided he could focus on pitching, Dean couldn’t care less if Novak was still feeling pissy. There was no time for off-field drama to affect on-field play. The year John Winchester had died, Dean had learned that the hard way. His grief, mediocre coping mechanisms, and John’s past tracking him down had ruined the best shot he’d ever had. Bad behavior was tolerated only so long, even from a player as good as Castiel Novak.

All worry that Novak’s peevishness would translate into bad play vanished during their bull-pen warm up. Throwing his hardest, Novak might bust up his elbow and would likely get himself pulled from the game at an even lower pitch count than he had the first two games of the season, but he’d get a heck of a lot of people out provided he could get a grip on his [pitch placement](http://www.humankinetics.com/excerpts/excerpts/locating-pitches-in-baseball). Novak was all over the [strike zone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strike_zone) and outside it; unusually, he even threw a few [wild pitches](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_pitch): one that grounded in the dirt out of Dean’s reach when he lunged to his left, a second that nearly clocked him in the jaw, and a third that sailed over his head despite his leaping jump to catch it. He landed hard on his heels to the sound of Novak snarling loudly enough that Dean could hear him despite their distance apart and a jolt of pain travelled straight up Dean’s fucking sciatica, twinging in his knee and hip.

“Do your fucking job, Winchester,” called Novak angrily.

“Only if you do yours,” Dean replied as nonchalantly as he could. Novak glowered beneath the rim of his cap and Dean did his best to keep from smirking. Riling Novak up was surprisingly fun.

_Wait…what?_

Dean could picture him, hot and flushed, angry words turning into aggressive, dominant kisses and…

_Fuck, abort, abort. What the actual fuck, brain?_

Before the thought could cascade in whatever bizarre-ass direction his subconscious and libido could concoct, Novak threw his next pitch and Dean was focused on practice again. Minutes later, the call came for batting practice and Lafitte took over for Dean in the bullpen. Though he knew it was ridiculous, the sound of horsehide striking leather made it clear Novak and Lafitte were hard at work, Dean could swear he felt Novak staring at him as he headed out to the field. Shrugging off the uncomfortable itching between his shoulders that his imagination of Novak’s gaze stirred, Dean stripped off his catching gear, dumped it in the dugout and took his turn in the [cage ](https://diamonddiariesdotnet.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/battingcagefrivolity.jpg)for some practice swings.

The game started precisely at 7:10, the umpire behind Dean throwing the first baseball of the game out to Novak, who didn’t bother throwing a single warm up pitch from the mound. Under the pressure of the brilliant lights illuminating the field, the meager crowd who came out despite decreasing temperatures, and the strength of the Braves batting line up, Novak continued erratic. More annoyingly, he shook Dean off every time Dean suggested a pitch other than a fastball. After the strong rapport that had carried Dean and Novak through spring training, through their first two starts together, it was frustrating to have Novak trying to ride roughshod over their game plan, but Dean kept his cool and followed Novak’s lead. He was surprised to find that even when off the field they were at each other’s throats, Novak knew what he was doing and as a pair they still managed to be effective on the diamond. Watching Novak between innings, Dean considered trying to get him to cool off, but decided it wasn’t worth it. If Dean picked a fight in the middle of the game, that’d be on him. Further, he wasn’t sure that Novak’s pique was a bad thing. He’d rarely seen Novak so focused as he when he stood at the dugout railing and stared at the opposing pitcher, stared at the Nationals’ batters on whom Novak relied. Novak’s fastball was on fire that night and they stood a good chance of winning, but great pitching was only half the game; if the lineup didn’t score runs, the best pitcher in history would still lose.

 _As long as he keeps channeling his pique into pitching, he’ll be fine. It’s if he loses control of his temper_ and _his pitches that we’re screwed._

Third inning they faced Jimmy Novak for the first time. He came to the plate with a cocky smile and easy stride as if he wasn’t worried to face his brother, the press hadn’t grilled him same as they’d grilled Castiel, as if he couldn’t hear the Nationals home crowd resoundingly booing him. Novak turned from home plate and scuffed his feet over the dirt of the mound as Jimmy took his sweet-ass time positioning himself in batter’s box. The longer passed, the more fixed his expression became. Dean wondered what he was thinking.

_Probably that he’s screwed. I don’t give a shit how many pitches he’s seen Cas throw, Jimmy’s not a great hitter and Cas is one of the best pitchers in the game. Fuck, I’d be screwed if I had to face him._

“Hurry it up, Novak,” muttered the umpire, and Dean started in surprise and resisted the urge to crane his neck to look back. Dean knew a lot of umpires, but this crew included a newbie with only a couple years experience whose name Dean hadn’t recognized – Charlie Bradbury. Snapping out the count, the voice had been gruff and low and unusually quiet. Now Dean knew why. The umpire was a woman. _How is this not, like, huge news?_ It seemed like something everyone would have been talking about, and yet here she was, completely unremarked on. When she spoke it was pretty obvious she was a woman, and… “Get the game moving, Winchester.” Giving himself a shake, Dean focused. Bradbury had been calling a good, fair game; her gender was irrelevant. Castiel was ready to pitch, Jimmy was squared up with his bat raised to his shoulder, and Dean did his best to mentally prepare himself for anything.

The first pitch was a 99 mile per hour fastball. Jimmy took an enormous [cut ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball#C)and missed by a mile, the ball by him before he got his bat moving. Muttering a curse, Jimmy squared for the second pitch; Dean called for a fastball on the [outside corner](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball#O) but Castiel either deliberately ignored him or his control was slipping, because he threw even harder and so [inside ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brushback_pitch)that Jimmy leapt back from the plate with a curse.

“[1 and 1](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Count_\(baseball\)),” Bradbury called.

Castiel continued erratic, Dean doing his best get his glove to the ball before it could get by him. Jimmy managed a foul tip on the third pitch, the fourth was a fastball that almost got by Dean, and the fifth passed behind Jimmy, prompting a squawk and forcing Dean to leap to prevent the wild pitch from getting past him and rolling to the[backstop](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball#B).

“3 and 2,” said Bradbury. In an undertone, she added, “Winchester, you might wanna go out there and calm your pitcher down.”

“Yeah,” muttered Dean. “I should do that.” He glanced towards the dugout, got a nod from Singer, and popped out of his squat, trotting out to talk to Novak. Catching a signal Dean didn’t notice, Carey came in from third base, too.

“What gives, Winchester?” Novak snapped, eyes unfocused as he stared coldly towards home plate.

“If you’re gonna peg your brother, why not get it over with, [hit him with a pitch](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hit_by_pitch) and send him to first? Or we can intentionally walk him if you’d prefer.” Dean spoke quickly, using his glove to cover his face so that no one on the opposing team or in the media could pick up what he was saying. “Or, last choice, take this shit seriously and strike him out. He’s totally overmatched, so put him out of his misery.” Carey looked uncomfortable about the whole exchange, listening but not participating, using a toe to repair a divot on the mound. Dean gave him a disgusted look and wondered why’d he bothered joining the meeting.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” snarled Novak. Carey turned away; Dean sighed. “I mean…” Castiel let out a deflating sigh. “Can we walk him?”

“We could,” said Dean, “but he’ll come up to bat again in a few innings. You planning to walk him every time? You’ve thrown him thousands of strikes in your career. This is no different.”

“You know that’s bullshit, right?” There was bitterness thick in Castiel’s voice, but before Dean could reply, Cas shook his head and pulled the ball from his glove, preparing for a pitch and making it clear he didn’t want to talk any more. Dean trotted back to the catcher’s box, called for a change up. Castiel didn’t shake him off and he threw the pitch perfectly. Jimmy made contact, a soft ground ball that Corbett fielded easily to throw Jimmy out at first, and the at bat was mercifully passed.

After Jimmy, Castiel settled down, much to Dean’s relief. The rest of the game went as smoothly as Castiel’s first two starts did. 1-to-0 games were always stressful, but Castiel managed to stay in until the 7th, Inias and Alfie were consummate professionals as the [set-up man](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Setup_man) and the closer, and despite a [bases loaded](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball_\(B\)#bases_loaded) close call in the 9th, the Nationals eked out a win even though the hitters were fricken ice cold.

Returning to the locker room, Dean was macabrely excited at the prospect of facing the media. They’d worked so hard to stir up drama in the lead up to the game that Dean longed to tell them exactly where they could stuff their bullshit. As he stripped off his gear and eavesdropped on his fellow player’s interviews, though, he thought better of his eagerness. Nothing but trouble could come of riling the press up. Nothing but trouble could come of talking to the press, period. Sure, they were going gentle on Talley as they asked about the bloop double he’d hit to plate Milligan for the game’s only run, but he’d heard the same reporters rip into the shortstop when he’d let a ball get by him the day before. Any given player was rarely the hero for more than a day. At least the questions they were asking Novak weren’t half so offensive and inciting as the ones they’d asked before the game.

“Mr. Novak, how do you feel about this start?”

“How did striking out your brother feel?”

“What did Winchester say that calmed you down?”

If they were asking Cas about Dean, it was only a matter of time before they cornered Dean and started in on him. Rather than take the chance, while they were occupied with Novak and his brusque, brief replies, Dean hastily stuffed his belongings in his bag and escaped the confines of the room. The hallways of the stadium were crowded with players, support staff, random people he suspected were players’ family members, and members of the press. Avoiding the attention of all of them proved easy; despite still wearing his uniform, his name _Winchester_ and his number – 17 in honor of his father – embroidered on the back, he was relatively unknown and so often seen in his catcher’s gear that he was rarely recognized. _Thank fricken God_. All he wanted was to wait unobserved for Jo to be done at the stadium so they could carpool back to her place together. With that in mind, he grabbed his duffel bag and headed to the training room. Jo would be busy for hours, helping the players she worked with through their cool downs, but there was a comfy seating area in one corner of the room that should accommodate Dean fine, and he’d be able to avoid the media and everyone else.

“So, how are you feeling?”

Dean didn’t see Jo as he stepped into the room but he could hear her clearly. There were plenty of obstructions, though, exercise equipment, niches containing hot and cold tubs, a private locker room, all places she might be working with someone.

“Oh my _God_ Jo, that was awesome!” Freezing halfway to a seated position, Dean blinked in shock to hear an unfamiliar female voice answer. “I mean, it was my first game and it went _awesome,_ like so _damn awesome_ —” Dean’s back twitched and a lightning-fast jolt seared down his leg, causing his knee to give way. “—and no one gave me a hard time or anything, and—” With a grunt, he collapsed onto the couch. Settling down took the pressure off his joints and the pain faded. His bag knocked loudly against the floor. “What was that?”

“Probably one of the players – Novak should be here any minute – Cas, that you? I’m back by the hot tub,” Jo called.

“It’s just me,” Dean shouted back, easing back into the couch. _Just not going to move for a minute or two. This isn’t bad at all, but..._ “Dean, I mean. Got an ice pack I can use?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Jo. His view was of the concrete wall, so he still couldn’t see her, but he could hear footsteps, the sound of something opening and closing, and in a moment later she came into view. “You okay?” Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her cheeks faintly flushed as if she’d been exercising. Another woman trailed behind her, slim and red-haired, also flushed.

_Is Jo...are they...how did I never know that?_

_Stuff it, Winchester, it’s none of your damn business._

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said apologetically. “Just thought I’d wait for you here, but I can leave.”

“What’s the trouble?” asked Jo, shaking off his words.

“Jo, I’m gonna go, if that’s okay?” the other woman spoke hesitantly, her voice ringing a bell now that she was speaking more softly.

“Pffft,” Jo puffed out dismissively. “Don’t worry about Dean, he won’t care.”

“Fuck not caring, I have no idea what’s going on but it’s got nothing to do with me,” he said. “If you can just put that thing on my knee, you can go back to whatever it was.” With a dazzling smile, Jo squatted next to the couch and put the pack in place, holding it there with a towel to protect her hand.

“Just the same, I, um, I should go, I’ll see you soon, right?” the cute red-head averted her eyes, fidgeting with the edge of her shirt.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” Jo asked, rolling her eyes. “Dean, hold that right there, I’ll be right back.”

Following her instructions, Dean held the cold press in place until she’d been gone much longer than promised and his knee was comfortably numb. Dean let his thoughts drift. He hadn’t had a great game, he’d struck out twice and hit way too many foul balls, but the Nationals had won and that was worth it. He reviewed each at bat in his head, considering how he might modify his swing to do better, considering how he might shift his stance in the batter’s box, debating the merits of using a lighter or heavier bat. Thus occupied, he lost track of time until the sound of several men speaking interrupted him: players come for their post-game sessions with Jo. Dean didn’t bother to turn to look but he listened idly to their meaningless conversation as Jo set them up with stretches and gave other instructions. When she finally got back to him, she spoke tersely.

“I haven’t got time to take a look now, but I can when we get home tonight. You’ve had that on for like fifteen minutes, your best bet now would be to stretch the joint out. Go talk a walk.”

“If you say so,” he shrugged. “You’re the pro.” Returning the half-thawed pack, he rose easily, pleased to find that the pain was completely gone. She returned to the other players and Dean was left to his own devices. Grabbing his bag again, he considered where in the warren of tunnels beneath the stadium he could walk without anyone bothering him.

The halls were less crowded than earlier, but there were still more people around for Dean’s comfort. He let his steps take him down long hallways, further and further away from the sections of the underbelly of the stadium that were used after the game. It didn’t take long before his knee felt soothingly warm, still pain free. He could return to Jo’s room, but it would be crowded with players by that point. The idea of being social was surprisingly unappealing. The last thing he wanted was to listen to Walker’s innuendos, deal with Milligan’s benign efforts to pretend that they could ever actually be brothers, or – worst of all – face the post-game repercussions of Novak’s hissy fit. Unthinking, Dean’s steps took him to an area around the away team’s bullpen, large storage rooms that were used when the stadium hosted special events but otherwise vacant. No one would bother him there; Jo could text him when he was ready to go. The lights clicked on as he stepped into the room.

“Who’s there?” asked a startled Castiel Novak. _No, that’s impossible. He must be with Jo. So who..._ Wheeling, Dean found Jimmy sitting across the room, knees up, back slumped against the wall. “Oh,” the long-haired twin let out a long breath. “Hi Dean.”

“Hey Jimmy,” Dean said, eying the door. There were other places of privacy, he didn’t have to stay, but there was something in Jimmy’s expression that arrested him. Dropping his duffel bag by the door, he crossed the room to stand awkwardly nearby. _What the fuck am I doing_? “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fucking great,” sighed Jimmy, dropping his head into his hands.

“I can leave you alone if you want…”

“No, it’s okay,” Jimmy said noncommittally. Unconvinced, Dean took a few steps in retreat towards the door. “I mean it, Dean. I thought I wanted to be alone but it turns out sitting alone in an empty storage room so long that the light goes out is actually really fucking lame and emo. So maybe I don’t want to be alone.”

“Emo?”

“Like…a whiny teenager who wears all black and thinks their life is over because their first crush doesn’t love them back,” Jimmy explained, patting the floor beside him.

“Who dumped you?” joked Dean as he dropped down to sit beside Jimmy on the hard ground. Jimmy’s face fell and Dean immediately regretted the comment.

“Cassie.” Jimmy fell back against the wall, his head hitting poured concrete with an audible clunk.

_…long, powerful fingers threading through dark hair, two pairs of blue eyes slipping shut in tandem, lips working desperately against lips…oh, for fucksake, stop it Winchester, that’s not what he meant and you know it…_

_Shit, I have to say_ something _…Uh..._ “Seems like you’re handling things better than he is,” Dean said tentatively. _That’s the kind of shit people say in heart to heart conversations, right? I should leave, I’m no help with something like this. Unless he wants a rebound fuck...fricken hell, stop it brain..._ He used to be absolute shit at touchy-feely conversations, avoided them at all costs, but Sam liked them and over the years Dean had developed rudimentary communication skills, if only to keep his brother happy.

“You only think so ‘cause you know him better than you know me,” said Jimmy with a wry laugh. “That silent brooding shit he did at dinner a couple weeks ago was totally in character, whereas I coped by running my mouth about bullshit no one cared about and telling stories I knew would make him uncomfortable.”

“Isn’t that what siblings are for?” Dean thought of all the times he and Sam had needled each other for no reason other than to get a rise out of the other. No one knew what buttons to push like a brother.

“It isn’t...it wasn’t like that for us,” Jimmy’s voice was thick with discouragement and hurt. “Don’t get me wrong, we fought – sometimes we fought a lot – but even after arguments it was never strained like it was at dinner. Before, there was never a question that we’d be okay, even when we said really nasty shit to each other. We’d have it all out and then we’d—” He cut himself short with a shudder, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck, I’m sorry, this isn’t your shit.” Dean resisted the urge to reach out and cup his cheeks, try to wipe that sad expression of his handsome face.

“I don’t mind,” said Dean instead, only a little surprised to find that he meant it. He curled his hands into fists at his sides to keep himself still. “I mean, I do have to deal with him every day, so…”

“I miss him a lot,” Jimmy confessed.

“Hey, that’s okay,” said Dean, putting a reassuring hand on Jimmy’s knee. Jimmy’s eyes flew open and he turned brilliant baby blues on Dean. _Fuck he’s hot…_ Blushing, Dean looked away lest anything in his expression betray how attractive he found the younger man. “It’s normal. My brother and I trade texts and calls pretty often and I still miss him like crazy. If we weren’t talking…I don’t want to think about how much that’d suck.”

“A whole shit ton,” Jimmy agreed, nodding.

“You know, if you ever want to talk…” Dean suggested. _Abort, abort, shut your damn face, Winchester..._

“Are you offering me your number?” asked Jimmy, amused. Dean shrugged uncomfortably. _Shoot me down now and put me out of my misery, anything to nip this shit in the bud before my damn libido gets too far ahead of reality and—_ “Sure, that’d be awesome.”

“Seriously?” spluttered Dean.

“Well, I _did_ just get dumped,” Jimmy said, laying his hand over Dean’s fist. Though the touch was light, his thumb curled around to brush Dean’s thumb, flesh hot, skin rough. “You know, Cassie thinks you’re straight.”

_Warning – warning – danger – keep your fucking mouth shut, you don’t know Jimmy well enough to trust him with this, he could tell anyone, tell the press…_

_…I’d trust it to Castiel…if he asked, I’d tell him the truth..._

There was something about Jimmy that made Dean want to trust, want to hope, want to try. Not only was Jimmy gorgeous – _though that helps_ – but his sense of humor, his openness, his dedication to the game, all the ways he was easygoing and easy to talk to while his brother was distant and moody. In the hundreds of hours of footage of Castiel pitching that Dean had watched, he’d inevitably ended up watching Jimmy, too. Both were consummate players, and though Castiel was an ass sometimes, Dean respected both as men, as players, respected Castiel as a teammate and Jimmy as an opponent. Castiel he found hot, but after their argument earlier it was impossible to forget how self-centered he could be. Jimmy, on the other hand…

“What your brother doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Dean even managed a cocked grin and a wink to go with the bold words, so outside his normal approach. Since he’d realized he was gay, _actually_ gay, not merely more interested in men than women as he’d tried to convince himself for years, he’d stopped flirting completely lest he give himself away. For a long moment, Jimmy didn’t move, didn’t bat an eyelash, only stared at Dean with those gorgeous eyes.

The lights winked off.

Dean’s hand slid to the floor. He felt and heard Jimmy move; a powerful grip grabbed the front of Dean’s uniform and a mouth crashed into his aggressively, kissing him instantly breathless. “Holy—” Before he could finish his exclamation, Jimmy surged into a second kiss, running his tongue sloppily along Dean’s lips and chin. Dean’s thoughts finally caught up to what was going on and he wrapped a hand around Jimmy’s head and held him in place, returning the kiss enthusiastically, his pulse fluttering audibly in his ears. He wasn’t sure if it was his own breathing or Jimmy’s that sounded loud in his ears; he found it hard to give a shit as Jimmy shifted to straddle Dean’s crossed legs, a hand squeezing Dean’s, the other on Dean’s cheek, leaning down into each emphatic kiss, drawing each out until Dean scarce knew where one ended and the next began, only knew that it felt _awesome_. Jimmy’s lips were chapped from games played in the April cold, his hands rough, his skin smelled of sweat and leather, his crotch ground against Dean’s just enough to get him hard, and fuck if it wasn’t _perfect._

“Oh yeah,” murmured Jimmy appreciatively, sucking on Dean’s lower lip hard enough to force a low groan from Dean, part pain and part pleasure. “Dean Winchester, straight as an arrow.”

“If anyone asks, I’ll say the same about you,” promised Dean, dropping his hand to the back of Jimmy’s neck, sliding his other to Jimmy’s waist, encouraging Jimmy to press their hips closer together, to brush their half-hard cocks together through their pants.

“Don’t bother,” said Jimmy. Every breath came as a pant from each of them, filling the dark room with sound. _If someone came in right now_... “I don’t care who knows that I think you’re hot. Or who knows that this feels fucking awesome. Shit, Dean—”

A shrill sound interrupted them and Jimmy groaned in combined arousal and annoyance.

“What the fuck?” asked Dean. _You think I’m hot?_ You _think_ I’m _hot?_

“Team bus is heading out,” Jimmy said unhappily, misinterpreting Dean’s surprise. Jimmy pulled out his cell phone and turned the alarm off. “I gotta go. But first – number?”

“(415) 555-8576,” Dean said, still stunned. Jimmy thought he was hot. Jimmy actually, really wanted his number. Jimmy sounded fricken _miserable_ that they’d been interrupted. _I take it all back, both the Novak twins are fucking insane._ Jimmy tapped on his phone screen; a moment later Dean’s phone pinged from across the room where it was stashed in the duffel bag he’d left beside the door. Jimmy rose, the lights in the room flicked on, and Dean got a delicious view of flushed skin and mussed hair. A dopey, happy smile graced Jimmy’s face as their eyes met and Jimmy pointedly adjusted himself in his pants, turned and walked away.

“The next Braves-Nationals series is in June,” Jimmy said over his shoulder. “I’ll see you then?”

“Yeah...that’d be great, Jimmy,” Dean grinned. Dropping a palm to his crotch, he rubbed against his erection. Jimmy froze and stared, eyes widening. He licked his lips, watching fixedly as Dean teased himself. “Don’t you have a bus to catch?”

“Fuckin’ tease,” muttered Jimmy. “I like it. But you’re right, I do have to go. Be seein’ ya, Dean.” With a wink, Jimmy waved and headed out, closing the door behind him.

The temptation to finish what they’d started together, to get himself off on the spot, was strong. Dean’s cock throbbed, his body ached, it had been so long since he’d been with someone else. Even what little he and Jimmy had just done was more than Dean had shared with anyone in over a year. _Soft lips, strong muscles, beautiful eyes, thick hair, a hard cock...fuck, how did I ever think I dug chicks, all those soft edges and curves can’t compete with what Jimmy has. It’d be so easy for me to_...he forced his hand away from his cock, forced his thoughts to reasonableness and caution. With Jimmy gone, the dangers of sitting alone in the stadium and jerking off came to him powerfully. Anyone could walk in on him. Sighing, Dean closed his eyes and sat still until the lights went dark again, until his body calmed enough that he wouldn’t embarrass himself, until he could be reasonably sure that the hallways would be empty. Maybe if he was really lucky, Jo would be ready to leave.

Rising to the accompaniment of the lights turning on again, Dean crossed the room, got his bag, retrieved his phone and headed through the hallways. He didn’t have any word from Jo yet, but his text from Jimmy was, like everything else about the man, disgustingly perfect.

_(202) 555-4562 (5:43 pm): Thanks for comforting me. Maybe getting dumped wasn’t so bad after all._

Dating another player was a whole new way for Dean to sabotage his meager career prospects.

At least this way would be fun.


	7. Chapter 7

_Dean (5:46 PM): So bored._

_Dean (5:47 PM): I’ve heard you college brats talk about sexile but I had no fucking idea._

There was no longer any doubt that Jo was seeing the mystery woman. Dean hadn’t seen the red-head again and Jo was close-mouthed about who she was, but whenever they’d had home games the past few weeks Dean had been disinvited from the apartment at least once per[homestand](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Series_\(baseball\)). Today was typical; she kicked Dean out before her girlfriend arrived and pointedly told him not to come back before 10 pm. Dean wasn’t sure how the fuck he was supposed to spend an evening alone in the capital. At a loss, he walked and texted, distractedly dodging traffic as he meandered from her apartment near Dupont Circle towards the National Mall.

_Jimmy (5:47 PM): I don’t get it – why don’t you get your own place?_

Thank fucking _God_ for text messages. If they were in person, Jimmy would see every expression that Dean couldn’t keep off his face. If they were talking on the phone, Jimmy would pick up his hesitancy and reluctance and figure out that Dean was lying his fucking face off. They hadn’t been in the same place since April, more than six fucking weeks, but when they talked on the phone Jimmy had an uncanny knack for reading Dean’s mind if he tried to dodge conversation topics. Texting was much easier. Texting he could say whatever the fuck he wanted.

_Dean (5:49 PM): Doesn’t seem worth the trouble. I won’t be in DC long enough._

It wasn’t exactly a lie. It just wasn’t why he was broke.

_I’m such a fuck up I can’t even swing my own apartment when I’m getting paid $1.2 mil for 8 months work. Dad would have fricken killed for that kind of money._

_No. Dad would have fricken burned through that kind of money like there was no tomorrow, wasted it on hookers and booze and stupid-ass bets. The fucker is ten years dead and he’s_ still _burning through that kind of money, ‘cause that shit is exactly what I’m paying off._

Death hadn’t absolved John Winchester of any of his multitude of debts; Dean had inherited credit cards and bank loans and a mortgage six months in arrears in addition to Douche Bag’s IOUs. Sam had helped pay off the regular debts, though they were sizeable. Somehow, that hadn’t been enough to tarnish Sammy’s rose-colored view of their father. Considering how often they fought while John was alive, Dean had been surprised to find what Sam was prepared to forgive. Dean’s reactions had been opposite; dutiful and loyal while John was alive, his father dying and leaving his mess for Dean and Sam to resolve had been the last straw. Over all the years and all the neglect Dean had always clung to the belief that John cared for them, but no one who cared for their children could behave as John had. When he’d mourned his father’s death, he’d mourned the loss of his idol, he’d mourned the loss of the relationship he’d _thought_ he’d had, but he hadn’t mourned for John Winchester.

_Jimmy (5:50 PM): How pessimistic of you. You and Cassie been fighting again?_

Dean had never told Sam about the loan sharks. Losing the man Dean thought John was hurt too much; he wouldn’t do that to Sam. The kid deserved to keep his hero. Besides, Sam had mostly paid for the rest. Dean wasn’t _completely_ incapable, he could pay his share without Sam’s help. Soon, it’d finally be _over_. Dean wouldn’t come out of the season with two pennies to rub together, but he would finally be free of his father’s shadow.

_In more ways than one. If I can stay in the majors this season – if we can have a good season – if Cas keeps doing well...maybe Singer is right, and I’m a better defensive player, better at calling a game. Maybe I’ll yet accomplish some things that dad never did._

Jimmy didn’t need to know any of Dean’s shit. Let him think that Dean was scrimping and saving his million for his future retirement. He doubted they’d be together long enough for Jimmy to find out that the money was actually gone.

_Dean (5:51 PM): If you mean is Novak still stressed and taking his shit out on me then yes. How can you be so chill and he can be such a pain in the ass is beyond me._

Heck, it was a miracle that they were still together in June. Dean’s relationships – _fuck, do I really think of this as a relationship?_ – Dean’s fuck buddies were usually just that. It was part of why he’d been single for so damn long. Having a fuck buddy during the season was too risky and having a fuck buddy during the off season was pointless. One night stands, sure, fine, occasionally, but someone regular? It was too much trouble. Yet, after their...whatever the fuck that was...after the game in April, Jimmy had started texting Dean just to _talk_. Not long after, they’d begun trading phone conversations. Now they talked several times a week and texted daily. Talking to Jimmy _was_ undeniably awesome. The guy was funny, quick on the uptake and for some reason seemed genuinely interested in what Dean had to say. What Dean couldn’t figure out was why.

_Jimmy (5:52 PM): He just gets nervous. He puts a lot of pressure on himself to perform and when he thinks he could have done better he loses it a bit. Intellectually he knows that if he can keep calm he’ll pitch better and he really tries but sometimes he fucks it up anyway. Then he gets in his head about that instead and gets more worked up. Once he gets to that point he needs a swift kick to get him out of the cycle._

Dean didn’t think he was total garbage. He was a D list celebrity, his family was famous, he played baseball pretty well and for a man his age and his profession he had held up decently. Enough people had told him he was a good lay that he believed it and he knew how to have a good time for an evening, X rated or otherwise.

None of that could explain why Jimmy fricken Novak would be interested in him.

Young, rich, brilliant, handsome, athletic, famous, fucking _awesome_ at baseball, Jimmy was the full package. Dean was creeping closer to 40 every day, while Jimmy still thought 30 was a distant, dreaded landmark.

Dean might as well enjoy it while he could.

He started to type out a reply, _I think Singer would frown on my kicking your brother. What would you_ — but another text came before he finished.

_Jimmy (5:54 PM): Or a good fuck. Blow jobs always worked well._

Freezing mid-step in the middle of the sidewalk, Dean’s gaze was fixed on the screen but he all he could see was Cas, his head thrown back against a bathroom stall door, mouth slack, eyes closed, hand clasped around Jimmy’s head as Jimmy knelt on the hard tiled floor, knees protected by his catching gear, letting Cas fuck into his mouth.

_Not what he meant, not what he meant, not what he meant..._

_...but what if it was what he meant?_

Cock thickening in his jeans, Dean looked around quickly as a passing man in a suit jostled him unnecessarily hard. H Street and 7th was packed with commuters. He’d say it was the most embarrassing place he’d ever popped a boner, but even that wasn’t true – only a cup had saved him from mortifying himself on national television a time or two.

 _Oh yeah, just like,_ the phantom of Castiel’s voice whispered, similar to Jimmy’s but less thick with humor, lower in arousal. _No, Dean, don’t touch yourself, you’ll have to wait – we have plans for you_.

_Jimmy (5:56 PM): Awfully quiet over there, big boy._

_Jimmy (5:57 PM): I might get jealous if you give my brother a blow job. Especially since you haven’t given me one yet. Just sayin’._

A new image crowded out the previous: Dean on his knees, Dean with Cas’ cock down his throat, Dean’s hands bound behind his back with pungent leather glove lacing. Jimmy knelt behind him, hands beneath Dean’s uniform, running his fingers over his chest and teasing at his nipples, Jimmy’s erection pressed to the cleft of Dean’s ass. _Look at you suck that cock, you fuckin’ love that don’t you, yeah, I thought so, do you want him to fuck your face as I fuck your tight ass? That’s what I thought, but you gotta earn it, Dean. Maybe if you’re real good to him, I’ll be real good to you. Look at you, dripping onto the bathroom floor, bet you’d love it if I stroked you hard, right? Not today, Dean, wanna fill you up, wanna fuck you senseless, wanna see the proof that our dicks are all you need. That’s true, isn’t it, Dean? All you need to come is a cock down your throat and another up your ass, right?_

Oh, fuck. Yeah, that sounded fucking _awesome._

_And none of it is true. And if he ever found out what a kinky bastard I am he’d be gone._

“Hey, you’re Dean Winchester, aren’t you? Way to _suck_ in last night’s game!”

Trust Washington fans to bring him back to earth. His aching cock gave a twinge and he fixed a smile on his face and forced himself to ignore the taunt, forced himself to keep walking. No one used to recognize him. Now that they did it fucking sucked.

“Why’d we trade Jimmy no-hit Novak only to replace him with a has-been like you?”

Scratch that. Getting recognized had been fine in April when he was playing well, but then, as predicted, he stopped hitting, and the vultures had swooped in calling for his guts if he didn’t start helping the team offensively. Dean had no idea why he hadn’t been sent down yet. He theorized that Singer was giving him until the [All-Star break](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_League_Baseball_All-Star_Game) to see if he could pick things up and if he was still shit by then, he’d be done.

Dean looked up to be confronted by a clean cut man in a nice suit, buttons undone against the summer heat, tie loosened at the end of the day. He shrugged, unable to come up with an answer, and looked around for an escape.

“Quit pretending to be your dad, you fossil!” added a passerby.

“Shut up, dude, I’d like to see _you_ get a hit off Aaron Nola!” Another stranger spoke up Dean’s defense. Dean wished he could disappear into the anonymity of the crowd.

“Bull, Nola is _garbage_ , fricken over-rated. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, no one pays _me_ a million bucks to swing a bat. That’s _his_ job – not for long, though.”

Mercifully, a gap opened up among the throng of commuters and Dean sidestepped the man confronting him and took purposeful strides. Forcing his smile into the tight imitation of a grin, Dean didn’t glance back to see either his detractor or defender, instead putting one foot in front of the other and proceeding towards the Mall. His knees creaked painfully, and he regretted that he hadn’t worn a brace for the long walk. He had two now, a cloth one he wore under his uniform for games and a clunky one with plastic and metal bits that he was supposed to wear if he was going to do shit like this. If only there was something for his hip, too. The amount of Icy Hot he was going through was probably illegal. Maybe he’d go sit in one of the museums. People there rarely recognized him and it was always quiet and peaceful in the galleries. He could fantasize about the Novak twins to his heart’s content.

 _Yeah, cause that’s healthy_.

It only took a block for him to leave the press of people behind, the streets closer to the Mall less crowded during rush hour. Glancing down at his phone, he saw he’d missed a string of text messages.

_Jimmy (5:59 PM): I mean, there are better ways to use those pretty lips of yours. They’d be wasted on my brother._

_Jimmy (6:00 PM): I can’t tell if I’m pissing you off or not. What’s up Dean?_

_Jimmy (6:03 PM): Okay, either you’re furious with me, you’re jerking off, or something came up._

_Jimmy (6:05 PM): I’m going with option 2. That’d be hot._

Cheeks fucking _glowing_ , Dean wondered if there was anywhere private in those damn museums where he could make a few minutes for himself.

 _Dean (6:07 PM): Sorry obnoxious fans_.

_Completely on-point fans who know as well as I do, as well as the press knows, as well as Cas knows, that I’m fucked in the majors. I bet that’s why Cas is stressed – he knows I’ve got six weeks on the outside before he’s gonna have to find a new catcher. Judging by the shit folks have been saying, they’ll bring up someone who hits. That’d be Gallagher. Man, that’s just a fucking disaster waiting to happen._

Dean wasn’t sure which disaster he meant: the loss of his income, his inevitable demotion, how poorly Cas was likely to pitch to Gallagher, or Gallagher’s utter lack of ability behind the plate.

_Don’t think about it._

_Dean (6:09 PM): If I had to pick I’d rather give you the BJ._

_Jimmy (6:10 PM): And if you didn’t have to pick?_

_Dean (6:11 PM): Shit dude why do you say crap like that to me?_

_Jimmy (6:12 PM): Twin fetish huh? Can’t say I blame you._

_Dean (6:14 PM): I promise the Minnesota Twins have nothing to do with it._

_Jimmy (6:15 PM): That was the worst pun I’ve heard in days. Are you trying to change the topic?_

_Dean (6:16 PM): Yes. Did it work?_

_Jimmy (6:17 PM): Nope. Still hard thinkin’ about you sucking me off._

A car honked at him and Dean jerked his head up in time to dodge getting run over as he jaywalked across Pennsylvania Avenue. He could just imagine the headline: “Lose-Chester: Nationals spared trouble of demoting Winchester to minors after idiot texts and walks into oncoming traffic.”

_Dean (6:18 PM): You trying to kill me?_

_Jimmy (6:20 PM): Hate to break it to you Winchester but you’re not old enough to die of a sex-induced heart attack._

The Mall was scattered with strolling couples and families, occasional tourists obviously interspersed among the group. The evening was mild, the sky clear, the humidity that made Washington summers unpleasant nowhere in evidence, the sun a fiery ball making a silhouette of the spire of the Washington Monument. The hulking edifices that housed the Smithsonian museums fronted the grassy expanse and Dean headed west towards the American History museum, open the latest.

_This is a fucking stupid way to spend an evening. I should find a bar and...no. No. Drinking won’t help me bat better. Drinking won’t help me ignore the press. Drinking won’t keep Novak from being a brat. If I add alcohol to the mix I’ll just fuck things up that much faster, I’ll just—_

The phone rang. Disgruntled, Dean went to send it straight to voicemail, saw it was Jimmy and, reluctant for no reason he could put his finger on, answered it.

“Where are you right now, anyway?” asked Jimmy.

“Oh, hi Jimmy, good evening, how are you? Or should I say ‘good afternoon,’ since you’re in California?” Dean replied dryly. “I’m good, by the way, thanks for asking.”

“But can’t you just picture it?” Jimmy said. There was a guttural note to his voice that sped Dean’s heart rate, fueled his imagination. “Cause _fuck_ , I can – if I had you here right now, I could just sit on this fucking bench, spread my legs wide to make room for you, let myself hang out, and you’d...” Jimmy trailed off, tone optimistic and inviting.

 _I’d lean in, kiss your leaking tip, use a hand to knead your balls..._ “Dude. I’m in public. Really, really in public, there are kids playing frisbee like ten feet from me,” Dean said as quellingly as he could, not sure if he was trying to stop Jimmy’s dirty talk or remind himself of all the reasons he was a sick bastard for being turned on by it, given where he was, given what he’d been thinking about Jimmy’s brother.

“Then find somewhere less public,” Jimmy suggested. “Cause I gotta take care of this before the game and it’ll be way more fun if you help. Fun for both of us, right?” There was a hint of doubt there that brought a smile to Dean’s face and a quaver to his heart. They hadn’t seen each other since April and they hadn’t done anything like this before, but was Jimmy actually worried about Dean wanting him? Dumb kid...

“I know a place,” Dean conceded. “It’ll take me a bit to get there, though. Faster if I get off the phone. I’ll give you a call, okay?”

“I look forward to it,” Jimmy said, smile obvious in his voice. “I’ll just keep stroking myself ‘til then.” Dean repressed a groan and Jimmy laughed. “Talk to you soon, Dean.”

Hanging up, Dean pocketed the phone and got his bearings. The Mall was piss poor for privacy; the grounds were wide open and spacious, the museum buildings were heavily monitored by security and tourists crawled over every inch of the place. However, he could think of one area that was less crowded, a forgotten war monument tucked into a thicket of trees and undergrowth growing largely unchecked on the less chic side of the Reflecting Pool. Taking broad strides, Dean tested his knee to see if it would be up for running or if he should stick to walking quickly. He’d not gone a half-dozen steps when the frisbee sailed in front of him and he snagged it mid-flight, turning to face the red-paced, puffing child who had failed in her pursuit.

“Thanks, mister,” she said brightly as he handed it back. “Hey – I’ve seen you on TV.”

Dean flushed. “No…no.” _What’s better than business men saying I play like shit? 8 year old girls saying I play like shit._

“You’re the catcher guy,” she said with growing confidence. “I was watching with my parents. You nearly fell in the dugout catching that pop fly against the Mets last week when they had the bases loaded in the ninth.”

Somehow, Dean’s face grew even hotter. He’d had to ice his lower back the entire next day but it had been completely worth it; they’d been in trouble and his play ended the game, gotten Alfie his 15th save, gotten Castiel his 6th win, kept the Nationals within a game of the lead for the NL East. At least Dean’s inability to hit was somewhat balanced by his fielding. At least Dean wasn’t dragging the team down with him. But they’d do better with someone else.

“Callie, what have I said about talking to strangers?” said an older woman as she approached, giving Dean a firm _stay the fuck away from my daughter_ look that fell away abruptly as her eyes widened with recognition. “Oh my God, you’re Dean Winchester!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied automatically, reaching for his cap even though he wasn’t wearing it. A buzz ran through the other children as they approached to see why Callie hadn’t returned with the frisbee. Some looked interested, others confused; one boy wearing a Nationals jersey bounced on his heels, pointing enthusiastically and trying to get the attention of one of the ring of parents gathering protectively around the children.

Dean spent the next ten minutes signing autographs. The kids lined up first, those who clearly had no idea who he was no less excited about getting something signed than their counterparts who recognized him. Some of the tourists and locals strolling the promenade noticed the crowd and got in on it too, some adult fans as fumble-footed and shy to meet him as the kids were. Two beaming Japanese tourists were _thrilled_ to discover that Dean spoke a little Japanese because he’d spent a season playing ball there and insisted on getting their picture taken with him. When he finally escaped, shaking the last few hands, his guilt at keeping Jimmy waiting paled in comparison to the warm glow suffusing his breast. No one had condemned him, no one had said he stunk, no one had called him out on his hitting. The kids had been flush with his successes. Their parents focused only on the positive, telling their kids about plays that Dean had made the last few weeks. Everyone who stopped was supportive; one even told him that streaks were part of the game and he shouldn’t let being cold discourage him.

 _Maybe this is what I needed all along – a bunch of kids and their parents to be a fucking positive reinforcement cheering squad. They could sit behind the dugout and every time I fuck up they could loudly say, “don’t get upset, Callie, Dean didn’t do well just now but remember two weeks ago when he ran over the catcher to score the game-tying run?”_ _Focus on what I can do, try not to dwell on the times I’ve failed._

 _Yeah, cause I’ve never tried_ that _before._

Shooting a last smile back to the kids, waving at them over his shoulder as they all waved at him enthusiastically and called after him, Dean trotted towards the monument. His knees protested at every step, reminding him that his instructions were firm on not jogging without a brace on, but he ignored the twinges of pain. Odds were he’d be out of the majors long before injuries would put him down. Despite the grim thought, his situation didn’t feel as hopeless now as it had standing on 7th and H and being heckled.

What would have been a twenty minute walk hastened into an 8 minute run as Dean pushed his pace as quickly as he dared while wearing boots and jeans. _Not bad for an old man._ He felt a renewed burst of pleasure in the wake of his impromptu signing session. _Not everyone hates me and Jimmy wants phone sex and fuck I have no idea what’s going on but sometimes it’s okay to let good things happen. That’s what Sam’d say, that’s what Jo’d say, that’s what Singer’d say, that’s what Lafitte’d say, and they’d all be right._ The monument proved to be less overgrown than he remembered, a white-pillared dome surrounded by paths that ran between the Reflecting Pool and Independence Avenue, but it was as deserted as anticipated. Surrounded by the lush green of late spring, the monument looked beautiful and forgotten; with the addition of some vines and a broken plinth or two it could have passed for an ancient ruin in some forgotten corner of the world.

 _Fricken poetic, Winchester. Now, let’s desecrate the place_.

The air beneath the dome was surprisingly cool, the interior shadowed, and though cars sped down the nearby street and people walked along the Reflecting Pool maybe 50 feet away, it felt isolated and private. Settling down to sit on the marble floor, Dean leaned back against a pillar, pulled out his phone and dialed Jimmy.

As soon as he heard the click that told him Jimmy had answered, he said, “I’d lay my hands on your thighs, spread them apart so that I can get good and close, lean down and lick up every drop that’s leaked out of you while you’ve been waiting for me.” His voice was husky and low after the exertion of his run, his shirt stuck his chest, sweat curled the hairs around his face. His erection swelled anew as he finally indulged the fantasies he’d been holding at bay.

“Fuck, Dean,” breathed Jimmy, voice soft and deep. “That’d be fucking awesome.”

“Bet you taste real sweet,” Dean continued. A part of his mind screamed embarrassment but he repressed it. He’d always been good at dirty talk; phone sex was just an extension of that. Easing his legs down and out, ignoring the creaking ache as he straightened his knees, he adjusted his cock to a more comfortable position. “Try to clean you up even though I’m gonna get you more wet and dirty – hate to waste a drop.” He pressed his palm hard against himself through the denim of his jeans. The location was too public for him to risk more. It wasn’t likely that someone would catch him but on the off chance they did, he’d be able to abort into a less compromising position easily if his dick was still in his pants where it belonged, whereas if he was caught with everything hanging out, he’d be screwed.

“You like doing that?” Jimmy asked. Dean murmured agreement. “Would sucking me off get you hard, Dean?”

“Stupid fuckin’ question,” Dean chuckled. “I’ve been getting’ hard for weeks just _thinking_ about your dick in my mouth. Bet you’re fricken gorgeous, aren’t you, Jimmy? Flushed and thick, head sticking out of from your uncut skin…”

“How’d you know?” There was a moaning quality to Jimmy’s voice that flashed heat and brightness behind Dean’s eyes. He fought the urge to let them slip shut so he could surround himself in imaginings, sensation and Jimmy’s luscious, gorgeous voice. He needed to be alert in case anyone walked by.

“…just a hunch,” he shrugged. _Just exactly what I would have wanted, love a guy with a foreskin, they’re so sensitive, make such pretty noises when I touch them._ “Tease you with my tongue, wrap my lips around you, suck and swallow and get you so worked up, draw back nice and slow…”

“Wanna see you stroke yourself while you suck me off,” moaned Jimmy. Pressing at himself more firmly, Dean echoed the moan softly. Shit, Jimmy sounded fuckin’ _awesome_ losing his mind on the other end of the line. Doing this together felt more intensely good than Dean would have imagined. “You touching yourself, Dean?”

“What do you think?”

“ _Tell me_ ,” said Jimmy, part demanding, part plaintive.

“Yeah,” Dean leaked the word out long and low on an exhale, rubbing against his erection at the same agonizingly slow rate. “And Christ does it feel good. Maybe I’ll…” He felt a surge of pleasure over nothing and trailed off, hips rutting up slightly into his hand to chase the sensation. “Maybe I’ll take a break from your cock, suck on your balls, slick up one of my fingers and bury it in you til I find your prostate – would you like that?”

“Mmmm,” agreed Jimmy. Over the phone line, Dean could hear the rapid swish of flesh on flesh, the sound of Jimmy’s hand working rapidly over his length. “You gonna fuck me, Dean? That what you want?”

“No,” admitted Dean, earning a startled gasp from the other end of the line. “I want to get you so hard you’re desperate, want you to grab me and—” He groaned as his vision of the monument went brilliant white. If someone found him now he was so fucked, he couldn’t stop, there was no way he could stop. “Want you to fuckin’ _drill me_ , Jimmy, nothin’ but spit and come and your cock in me, fuck that’d feel good, that’d feel—”

“Holy shit,” Jimmy gasped. “You’re serious – fuck – yeah – that’d be – that, let’s do that—” A frantic inhale shattered into a deep groan that Dean felt like a fucking touch on his body, in his body, and his thoughts screamed protest that Jimmy had just come, must have just come, and Dean wasn’t even touching himself, just pressing at himself with his hand through thick fabric.

 _Want to come, want you to make me come, want to…_ “…come, fuck, Jimmy, you’re so fucking hot, you know that? Ain’t got no right – but I want you, want you _bad_ , want—” _Want Cas, too, want them both, just like Jimmy said earlier, that’d be so good. Fuck, I’m so empty, I could slip a hand in my pants, I could – no, not here, not like this, maybe later, maybe –_

“Take such good care of you, Dean,” murmured Jimmy affectionately. “Here I was assuming you were a top, shows what I know – stretch you out and fill you up—” Dean moaned, his hand shaking as he tried to keep his grip on the phone. “—make you wait, maybe if you’re real good I’ll ride you when I’m done—” _Jimmy inside me, Cas around me – no that’s not right, it’s gotta be the other way around, Cas behind me, filling me, Jimmy in my lap, Christ, that’d be amazing, that’d be fucking perfect_. With a groan and heat that seared light through his head, Dean came wet in his boxers, pressing his hips up against his palm as he caught his cock through fabric and inadequately wrapped his fingers around it. “Just like that, right, Dean? You’d come just like that.”

“Two weeks?” Dean asked, panting, aftershocks leaving him twitching. Slumped limp against the pillar, his sense of where he was slowly returned. No one was watching. Thank fricken God. “We’re in Atlanta in two weeks, right?”

“Closer to three,” said Jimmy sadly. “June 24th. Not that I’ve checked. Not that I’m counting days or anything.”

“You really want to see me that badly?”

“Yeah, Dean. I really, really do.”

_All things considered, maybe life isn’t so bad. I could get used to this._

* * *

The sense of well-being that his evening of sexile unexpectedly left him with carried Dean through the next few weeks. Cas’ temper cooling helped; so did Dean’s hitting warming up again. Dean didn’t play as well as he had at the beginning of the season but he wasn’t in the depths, either. With his improved mood, he could see clearly that it wasn’t entirely his fault that his hitting had dried up. He had so little time in the Majors that early scouting reports on him must have been incomplete and the opposition hadn’t known how to pitch him. With more information, pitchers could get him out more effectively; in particular, word got out that he was shit against right handers, which seemed to be all he faced now. That was the nature of the game. It was a race between the offense and the defense; early on, Dean had the advantage because the offense didn’t know him, then the balance had shifted dramatically against him. Now it was balancing out again as he adapted; he’d never be good at hitting righties but he was more patient at the plate. Walks made up for his lack offensive production. As a bonus, they were easier on his knees. Dean held out hope – and Jimmy agreed – that as long as he wasn’t a guaranteed out every at bat, his defensive play was good enough to justify his presence on the team. Henriksen was having a good season, which helped. Singer kept Dean on all of Castiel’s games and one or two others a week, trying to get him against lefties when he could.

The Nationals season proceeded, days blurring together in their frantic pace. They were having a damn good run. Most of the team hitters were streaky, but thus far as soon as one player went cold, another had picked up the slack. It wouldn’t last – that kind of luck never did – but the beautiful thing was that it didn’t _have_ to last. If they could have a month where they went, say, [15-and-10](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winning_percentage) or better, it could carry them through another month where they played .500 ball. Exactly that had happened over three weeks of May, and then the team got hot again and they’d gone on a winning streak. One more solid run of wins might be enough for them to secure the division for the team; even if it didn’t, it’d put them in a great position in the [wild card race](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_League_Baseball_wild_card). Dean tried not to think about it too much – they weren’t even halfway through the season yet – but it was hard not to consider the possibilities.

The flight to California fucking knocked Dean flat. He hated flying at the best of times. Six hours in a winged death trap was never his idea of fun. What he hadn’t expected was how sitting still that long, even in the relative luxury of a first class seat, would impact his joints. By the time they landed in San Diego he was so stiff he had trouble getting his legs to straighten. He tried to mask it by pretending to be even more bow legged than he actually was and dared to hope that the assessing look in Singer’s eye was unrelated.

“My office, Winchester,” were the gruff words the next morning that proved that hope unfounded. At least San Diego was fucking _spectacular_ – the weather perfect, their hotel luxurious, and he’d slept like a fricken log, which was good since thanks to jetlag their game that night was going to feel like it _started_ at 10 PM. God forbid it went into [extra innings](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Extra_innings) and they were up until 3 or 4 AM Eastern time. He was too old for that shit.

“Today, Dean,” Bobby snapped. The coach had found him and Cas while they were throwing preliminary warm up pitches, soft tosses back and forth to get a feel for the ball and the day. Dean was glad that he could pretend he was scowling at Bobby rather than as a result of the unpleasant twinges as he rose and tossed the ball back to Cas.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Dean grumbled. A confused Lafitte trotted up, eying Singer, Dean and Cas in turn before dropping into a squat so Cas could keep practicing. Trailing behind Singer, Dean stretched out the kinks, flexing his joints at each step. He felt like a kid called to the principal’s office.

“How’s Novak doing?” Bobby asked as soon as the door closed to the glorified closet that San Diego claimed was an office for the away team to use.

“ ‘Bout the same,” said Dean with a shrug, accepting Singer’s gestured invitation to sit in the only additional chair that fit in the room. “Still pitching tense. Guess Harvelle’s massages aren’t as effective as advertised.”

“Have you tried talking to him, seeing what’s wrong?”

“What, am I a therapist now as well as a catcher?” laughed Dean. “The boy’s got the[yips](http://m.mlb.com/news/article/47124896/the-yips-difficult-to-understand-difficult-to-cure). I mean, not too bad, it’s not screwing up his on-field play, at least not when I’m his catcher, but he’s stuck in his own head. He was doing better earlier in the year; beats me what changed. Probably still hung up on his brother.”

_Jimmy kneeling on the floor in full catcher’s gear, Cas easing his cock through the lattice of the mask, gently, carefully. Jimmy straining with his tongue for the first taste, Cas quivering with the effort of waiting. Jimmy—_

_Abort, abort, the fuck you thinking, Winchester?_

“Talk to him, Dean,” Bobby said firmly. Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby talked over him. “So, tell me about your knees.” With a scowl, Dean snapped his mouth shut again, crossing his arms across his chest. “Funny, you used to look just like that when you were twelve and I called you out for charming hot dogs from the girls who worked the concession stands.” _It was boys as often as not._

_What Bobby doesn’t know won’t hurt him._

_Fuck that. Bobby knows, Bobby’s gotta know_.

“What do you want me to say, Bobby?” grumbled Dean. “You knew my joints were shot when you hired me. Playin’ full games hasn’t helped any.”

“Do you need a break? We could put you on the DL,” Bobby’s voice was carefully neutral and non-judgmental but Dean still felt the condemnation behind the words.

“Absolutely not,” said Dean. “Even if I only skip the minimum, that’s 15 days. Cas’ll have three starts in that time. You know how he is even when he’s playing hot – now that he’s struggling, how do you think those game’ll go if I’m not behind the plate?”

“Pretty high opinion of yourself, Winchester,” snorted Bobby.

“Pretty low opinion of your ace’s ability to play well with others,” countered Dean. A skeptical look suggested that Bobby was about to continue, but Dean pressed on, surprised by the desperation that seeped into his voice. “Bobby, this is my shot. This is my _only_ shot. I’m finally old enough not to make stupid-ass mistakes, I’m finally clean, I’ve got dad outta my hair. I was never gonna be great on my own merits, that’s been amply proven, but if I can help Novak play well for this season, I’ll have _something_ that I can point to and say, ‘I did that.’ And sure, people who don’t know the game will think I didn’t do shit, but anyone who knows anything about baseball’ll know that what Novak did, he couldn’t’a done without me. That’s enough for me. Even if I take a couple weeks, even if I do some physical therapy, even if I go down to the minors for a stint, none of that is gonna heal what 25-some-odd years of playing catcher has done to my body. Whatever. I can cope. We always knew this was a one season gig anyway. I just…” He took a deep breath and kept going before Bobby could see his pause as an invitation to interject. “I need this. Please, Bobby, let me have this. No – no, that’s not right. If my play starts to suck, you do what you need to do, but as long as I’m able to play through it, let me play through it. Kick me out cause I blow a big game, kick me out cause I can’t hit the broad side of a barn, but don’t kick me out because _you_ think I can’t play through the pain. I can play through the pain, okay?”

For long moments, Bobby watched him, expression impassive. Finally, he nodded and Dean heaved a sigh of relief. “Fine, boy, keep playin’, but if it looks like you’re going to cripple yourself, I _am_ pulling you. Also, you’re down to two games a week – Henriksen can shoulder the rest of the load – and I expect you to take one full day of rest, no exercise, none of that shit, outta every seven. If Novak bitches ‘bout it, tell him to suck it up and deal.” With effort, Dean kept his face neutral. Just as Cas wouldn’t pitch games to anyone else, he didn’t like to warm up with anyone else. It was part of why the season was wearing on Dean so quickly; working all of Cas’ bullpen and warm up sessions on top of working games was a lot, more than he was used to. “And you’re seeing Jo for physical therapy and following her instructions. You’ve convinced me that you should stay, but if she goes to Turner or Milton and says you’re not up for it, I won’t be able to pro—I won’t be able stop them doing as they see fit. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Dean nodded. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“Don’t thank me ‘til it’s the end of the season and you’re still able to walk,” said Bobby, shaking his head. “This is a shit way of handling things.”

“When we’re in the World Series and Novak has 18 wins for the season, you’ll feel differently,” Dean said with more confidence than he felt. Bobby snorted and made a dismissive gesture.

Heading back towards the locker rooms, Dean debated whether to seek out Jo or Cas first, finally settling on the latter. Preparing for the game was more important than having Jo scold him for half an hour about his self-neglect. Dollars to donuts she’d assign him a slew of asinine low-key stretches and issue him some boring-ass diet meant to purge his system or something.

“…is doing in the [All-Star voting](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_League_Baseball_All-Star_Game#Selection_of_players)?” The voice of a perky woman said as Dean pushed open the locker room door and made towards his cubby.

“I was unaware,” answered Cas with the air of detached disinterest he always assumed when talking to the press. “How my brother performs in the All-Star voting is irrelevant to me.”

“But he’s currently in first place to be the National League starting catcher,” pressed the woman. “If you’re chosen as the starter and he wins the fan vote, you’ll be pitching to him again for the first time since his trade. How would you feel pitching to him again? Do you expect to be selected as the National League’s starting pitcher?” Curious, Dean turned down the rows of open cubbies that passed for lockers and spotted Cas talking to a young reporter, her highlighted brown-blonde hair hanging straight about her face, her expression avid and eager.

“I couldn’t say if I’ll be selected,” Cas said. There was no sign that either had noticed Dean listening, nor did they appear aware of the small group of other players who were listlessly going about their pre-game routines while keeping an ear on the interview. “That will be determined by my peers.”

“Does it bother you that position players are selected by popular vote whereas pitchers are chosen by players, coaches and managers?” she pressed.

“No,” replied Cas. “I’d be more concerned if pitchers were chosen by popular vote. Rumor is I’m not fan favorite.” Though Cas’ tone was neutral, his lips quirked slightly and Dean couldn’t help but snort on a laugh. Both reporter and player turned towards him and all the other players around made a sudden, energetic show of going about their business. Dean shrugged, grinned and winked at the reporter. Eyes narrow, she gave him a predatory look that made him nervous. _Goading the press, always a great idea, way to go, Winchester._ Grabbing his shaving kit, he beat a hasty retreat to the sinks across the room, glad that his laziness that morning gave him a handy excuse to get away from her.

“Word is that Mr. Winchester will be demoted to the minors, possibly as soon as the end the week. Do you have any comment on that?” Through some quirk of acoustics Dean could hear her more loudly and clearly from across the room than he had when he was near. There was a nasty edge to the reporter’s bright voice and he could picture her avid expression as she dug her claws in.

“Let me be perfectly clear, Ms. Rosen: Mr. Winchester is one of the best catchers I’ve ever worked with.” Tense anger clipped each word Novak said. “This is exactly what I mean about players and coaches being a better judge of ability than lay people. If the average baseball viewer had any idea what they were watching, they wouldn’t vote for players who are all flash and pizzazz. There’d be no need for a [Home Run Derby](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Home_Run_Derby_\(Major_League_Baseball\)). Players who are the strongest in their positions would be those highlighted, regardless of the popularity of their team or their individual cult of personality. A catcher who hits for a high average but cannot field effectively or support his pitching staff is no use to anyone, but someone like that is who will surely make the team. A veteran like Dean, seasoned and excellent defensively but not prone to highlight reel plays, doesn’t stand a chance. If the selection was done by people in the game, the All Star teams would look very different. Knowing that Dean will not be selected makes me hope I will not be either. The coaches and managers for the Nationals are not as easily deceived as the fans are by a low batting average. I have no cause to fear him being imminently demoted, which is fortunate as I don’t want to pitch to anyone but him.”

It wasn’t until Novak fell silent that Dean realized he was standing stock still at the sink, staring unseeing at his reflection, hand shaking as he held his lathered shaving brush up to his face.

That’s _what Cas thinks of me?_

“But Mr. Novak—”

“If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Rosen, I’ve got a game to prepare for,” interrupted Cas with finality.

_I thought…fuck, I don’t even know what I thought. I thought he considered me adequate. No, I thought he considered me a barely acceptable substitute for Jimmy. Which sounds about right, all things considered. Except…he just said he’d rather pitch to me than his brother in the All Star game. Which, let’s be real, is fucking impossible, but…_

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Novak.” No one who had just been dismissed so abruptly should sound so cheerful.

_…wow._

Nervously, Dean combed through his memory of what Cas had said and realized how screwed his pitcher was. There were ample quotes that, taken out of context, would make Cas sound like a Grade A douche bag. Going after the fans was the worst thing any player, coach or manager could do in an interview. What the fuck had Cas been thinking?

 _He was defending me. That’s what he was doing_. _Fuck. I’ve got to start playing better. When I suck it reflects on everyone around me, too. When I suck, it makes things harder for Cas._

Trying to shave with his hand trembling was challenging, but he pushed through and kept his eyes fixed on his reflection, pointedly ignoring Rosen as she passed behind him and shot him a look. When he’d done a barely adequate job – _fuck it, my mask will hide the scruff and the cuts –_ Cas went by, not even glancing his way.

“Um, Cas?” Dean said, scrubbing away water, blood and traces of shaving cream with a wash cloth. Cas froze and turned, and not for the first time Dean was struck by how handsome he was, how much he resembled his brother and yet was obviously different. His hair was shorter but as dark, his eyes a subtly different shade of blue, his body leaner though matched in height and build. “Thanks.” Cas quirked his head slightly, eyes lowering to communicate quiet confusion. “For what you said about me to that reporter.”

“You heard that?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, wiping his face unnecessarily a second time to hide his expression. “Everyone in the room probably heard you.”

“Oh,” said Cas. His lips compressed into a thin, unhappy line.

_I never would have thought of his face as expressive before, but shit, he projects everything he’s thinking, just quietly._

“I appreciate you sticking up for me,” continued Dean. “I spoke with Singer – as far as I know I’m here for the long haul. I’m gonna do my best to be the catcher you deserve, okay?”

“You already are, Dean,” Cas replied. “That’s the whole point. Get ready, we need to warm up.”

“Yes, sir!”

Dean’s dopey grin stayed fixed in place long after Cas had left, after Dean finished getting his gear together for the game, and was still firmly in place when he went to speak with Jo.

“You look happy,” she observed as soon as he walked in. “Feeling better?”

“Nope,” he said brightly. Jo blinked at him uncertainly. “I’m assuming you talked to Singer?”

“Should I have?” she asked.

“Guess he left it to me,” said Dean, shrugging. “Here’s the deal: I need physical therapy twice a week, and I need regular stretches for my knees and joints.” Earlier, the prospect had frustrated him; now he strangely looked forward to it.

 _Not strange. Cas believes in me. Jimmy believes in me. Fuck, Bobby believes in me, though he’s an idiot so can’t take that too seriously. I might be able to keep playing well enough – but only if my body doesn’t break down. And the only way to forestall that is to do these damn exercises._ _I have to do better, for Cas’ sake, and that includes taking care of myself_.

“Alright, we can do that,” Jo said with a dazzling smile. “And I’ll know if you don’t do your stretches.”

“I’m counting on it,” said Dean.

“Wow...seriously? What’s gotten into you today?” Waving him over, Jo put a hand on a Stretch Partner and patted the seat on it. “Got a girlfriend?” Dean took his position and shook his head. Jo knew he was gay, but she’d never chance saying it aloud at the stadium, she knew as well as he that there was too much danger of someone else overhearing. 

 _Is Jimmy my boyfriend? I don’t think we know each other well enough for that yet. Maybe someday..._ He pushed the thought away wistfully.

“Well, it’s nice to see,” she said, using taps and tugs to get him into the stretches she wanted him to do. His knees both tensed in anticipation, and she rapped him on the ankle to get him to stop.

“What, have I seemed down lately?” Dean laughed.

Jo rolled her eyes. “Dean, I’ve known you my whole life, you can’t play innocent with me; I know what it looks like when you are playing peacemaker, you did it for fifteen years with your dad. In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about it.” Holding onto the handlebars and pivoting the seat back, Dean relaxed into a stretch that felt like fricken _heaven_ through his back and said nothing, unsure what she had in mind. “You gotta lay off Novak.”

“Huh?” Dean was so surprised that his grip on the handles slipped and the seat thunked back, jolting his spine.

“I mean it, Dean,” Jo said firmly, as if Dean had the least damn idea what she was talking about. “He’s under a lot of stress – you should feel the knots in his shoulders after each game – and he thinks you can’t stand him.”

“What, did he say that?” Incredulity tinged Dean’s voice.

“Not in so many words, but he talks about you,” she shrugged. She laid her hands on his shoulders, pressing in with her thumbs. “You’re carrying a good amount of tension yourself.”

“You think?” Dean meant the words to have some snap to them but the massage felt so good that they came out breathy instead. “You’ve got this all wrong. He’s the one who acts like he can’t stand me.” _At least, that’s what I thought until today.  If he hated me, he’d never had said those things to that reporter. If he hated me, he wouldn’t stand up for me or say nice things about me. That’s a good start. Of course, if he found out I’m dating his estranged brother...cause that’s not awkward or anything...but no. Thing’s’ll be better after this._

“Sounds like the two of you need to have a nice long talk,” advised Jo. Taking his hands, she set them on the handlebars and guided him into another stretch.

“We talk every day,” Dean countered.

“You need to have a nice long talk about something, _anything_ , other than baseball,” she replied acidly.

“There’s no time for that.”

“Bull,” she said. “Look, I’m in the game, and I’m dating someone in the game, and we still find time to talk about something other than the game. I’m sure you can manage it.”

“Novak and I aren’t _dating_ ,” Dean choked. The rest of what she said registered a moment later. “You’re dating someone else involved in the game? But you’re dating a woman!”

“I forgot I was the only woman involved in the entire game, my mistake.” She tugged him harder than necessary into a new position. “And don’t try to change the subject. I know you and he aren’t dating, and I know that you’re not mean to him, but try treating him like a person instead of putting on that permanent ‘peacemaker Dean’ thing. He doesn’t just need a catcher, he needs a friend.”

“Look, I can’t force myself to be friends with someone,” Dean said. “But you’re preaching to the choir anyway. We get along fine. Going forward I bet we’ll get along better, if he can ever get over his chronic constipation.” She gave him a sidelong look. “He’s got this habit of lashing out at me when he’s feeling feisty.”

“Really?” she sounded genuinely surprised. Before she could explain, she led Dean from the Stretching Partner, gave him a resistance band, and got him started on a new set of exercises. When he was hard at work, she picked up where she’d left off. “He really does like you.”

“Huh?”

“I wasn’t his trainer last year but I was around the organization,” Jo explained. “I’ve never seen him get angry with anyone but his brother. He usually just goes all cold and distant when he’s pissed.”

Dean shook his head. “Man, I wish I was one of the best pitchers in a generation, I could get away with all kinds of shit.”

“Like your dad?” she gave him a mischievous smile but the words hit Dean like a blow. Grunting, he focused on his stretches. The good spirits that overhearing Castiel’s interview had left him with dissipated instantly. Something must have shown on his face, because the cheery look on Jo’s face fell away. “That was out of line Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Dean gruffly. “You’re not wrong. John got away with all kinds of shit, and I didn’t. I don’t think Cas is like my dad, though.” She gave him a quizzical look. “Cas is a better player than dad, a better friend than dad, and better man than dad. And, unlike dad, Cas actually believes I’m worth a damn.”

“You _are_ , Dean, you—”

“So, what’s her name?” Dean interrupted. Damn it, it had felt _nice_ to not feel like shit about himself for a few minutes. When he thought about Cas, he could start to recapture that warm glow in his breast – _wrong, wrong, wrong, I should be thinking about Jimmy, not Cas...not both of them..._ – but as soon as he thought about his dad he crashed back to reality in a way that he hated. He didn’t need Jo offering him meaningless reassurance or platitudes.

There was a long delay before Jo spoke, ostensibly as Jo guided Dean into a new stretch, helping his leverage.

“Charlie,” she said finally. “Her name is Charlie.”

“You’re dating the umpire!” Dean crowed. Jo flushed bright red but didn’t deny it. “Oh, man, that’s _priceless_.”

“This is why I didn’t tell you,” she said. “Anyway, what’s ‘priceless’ about it?”

Dean didn’t have a good reason, but that didn’t stop him from distracting both of them with whatever bullshit popped into his head. Anything to keep the conversation from becoming serious again – anything to regain that feeling of happiness that had him smiling when he’d arrived in her training room. Dean had a game to play.

The game went off without a hitch. Dean didn’t get a hit that night, but they recorded Cas’ 7th win and knocked his [ERA ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earned_run_average)down to below 2. The warm glow that the win left Dean with brought back every good feeling that overhearing Cas had given him. They were partners in this; when Cas played well, it meant Dean had played well, and knowing that he’d been able to do that for Cas, do that for the team, felt awesome. Singer congratulating him after the game and telling him to keep it up helped as well. Jimmy’s congratulatory text was icing on the cake. Just as Cas said – those who knew the game understood Dean’s contribution. If Dean could play like this for the rest of the season, it would be enough.

 _Bullshit, son. You can play better than this. Why can’t you hit? Gotta keep your eye on the ball, gotta get your arms stronger, gotta use a lighter bat. Can’t believe I thought you would follow in my footsteps, can’t believe I used to tell people that of_ course _you’d be as good a player was I was. Can’t play for shit, boy, riding that pretty twink’s coat tails – you’d ride something else if you had your way, wouldn’t you? You’d ride both of them and beg them for more, wouldn’t you?_

_Yeah, that’s what I thought._

_Shut up, dad. You’re fucking dead, and if Cas and I keep this up for a season I might yet do something you never did and get a fucking World Series ring. Wouldn’t that show you._

_No, it probably wouldn’t. Even if you were alive, it wouldn’t matter what I accomplished, it’d never be good enough. That’s why I stopped fucking listening to a word you said even before you died. Stopped listening, but couldn’t stop hearing, couldn’t stop remembering it all and repeating it all even when I knew it was total bullshit._

_Don’t you talk to your daddy like that, boy. You will show me some respect!_

_Fuck that. Whatever respect of mine you earned, you destroyed long ago. I’m so fucking glad you ended it when you did. Never having to deal with you again is the best thing that ever happened to me._

_That makes me shit for a son._

_And I don’t care anymore._


	8. Chapter 8

Returning to California always felt like coming home. It was a false impression; no sooner did he arrive each time than he realized that he wasn’t _actually_ home, he had no place of his own to return to. When he and Sam had been kids, John had an apartment or house some years but not others, and they’d spent the on- and off-season following their dad around or staying with the Harvelles or Bobby. After he was signed, Dean had been with whatever team owned him each year, and, back when he still thought he had a future, he’d returned to California only when he wasn’t doing something related to his own nascent career. In the years since then he’d spent many a winter in California when he wasn’t playing winter ball in the Caribbean but those first few seasons, Dean had found shit apartments for him and dad and Sam, and after Sam settled in San Francisco, not long after John died, Dean stayed with him. He’d never _really_ had a home. California held the dream of a home of his own, but forced him to see the depressing reality that there wasn’t anywhere he truly belonged.

_Maybe this off-season I’ll take a look at Atlanta. Maybe there’ll be someplace there I can afford. Maybe Jimmy would like it if I was around._

_I’d like it if he were around._

The thought caused an unfamiliar ache in his chest. He was used to feeling inadequate, used to feeling unworthy, and he was getting better at pushing back when he felt that way and trusting Jimmy to speak up if he were unhappy. This pain wasn’t that, and it grew worse as he flicked on the turn signal on his rental car and merged into the passing lane to get past a plodding truck. For no reason he could put his finger on, he felt like he was driving in the wrong direction. Not that he was actually doing anything wrong: Cas and Dean had started the previous night, which meant Cas had the day off and, in light of Singer’s insistence and Jo’s nudging, Dean took it easy when Cas didn’t need him. It had helped with his knees a bit. As such, the day was his to do as he would, and he was spending it driving up to LA to meet Sam, try wedding cake, and then re-join the team the next day when they came to LA for a series against the Dodgers.

It felt weird to be away from his team mates.

It felt weird to be away from Cas.

The night before, he and Cas had tanked. Not every game could be a winner; Cas had allowed four runs in six innings and only a late-inning rally from Corbett, Talley and Collins had earned Cas a [no decision](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No_decision) instead of a loss. Their runs hadn’t been enough to save the game, though; they’d gone into extra innings and the Nationals had lost on a [sac fly](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sacrifice_fly) in the 13th. Afterwards, Cas had a look on his face that Dean had never seen before, tight, his eyes pinched and narrow, his lips a thin compressed line, and after staring far too long Dean had realized that Cas was upset – sad and frustrated. Once he recognized it for what he was, Dean’s heart had ached just the same as it was now. He’d needed to do something, _anything_ , to comfort him, except he hadn’t the least idea _what_. Even though he was leaving early the next morning to drive north and meet Sam, he’d approached the pitcher and asked if he wanted to chill and decompress after the game.

Cas had shot him down, spent the bus ride back to their hotel brooding and disappeared to his room as soon as they returned.

Thinking about Castiel simultaneously eased and increased the tension in Dean’s chest.

_I should have checked on him this morning. Would that have been weird of me? He hates losing..._

_I’m not his therapist. I’m not his friend. No, that’s not true, I think I am his friend, but I can only be his friend to the extent that he lets me be. If he doesn’t want me around when he’s upset, well, I can’t blame him – I wouldn’t want him to see me upset, either._

Dean pushed the thoughts aside and focused on driving. There was no point in looking back. The next few days promised to be kick ass. His only game against the Dodgers wasn’t for two days and he’d be catching for Reidy. After they talked wedding nonsense, Sammy would hang out for a few days and watch the Nats play the Dodgers. He’d not spent time with his brother since December, when Singer had called him up and suggested that the Nationals might have a job for him. Dean had almost turned Bobby down. He was glad he hadn’t.

_This is where I belong._

_Whatever_ that _means._

His phone pinged with the umpteenth text message since he’d started driving but he resisted the urge to see what was up. The remainder of the drive passed quickly, the tension fading as he thought about the days to come. He didn’t checking his messages until he pulled into a gas station just outside LAX to refill the tank before returning the rental.

There were a handful from Sam, a few from Douche Bag and enough from Jimmy that Dean was nervous.

_Douche Bag (11:02 AM): The drop off is set for 8 PM at Elysian Park Road and Stadium Way and in Elysian Park. Don’t be late._

Rolling his eyes, Dean punched out a terse reply promising to meet whoever Douche Bag had sent to meet him at the park surrounding Dodger Stadium. He was passing over $50,000 that night. Getting his hands on so much cash while on the road had been an epic pain in the ass, but he’d done it a few thousand at a time. The money was burning a hole in his suitcase now. To his surprise, it was easy not to think about it, though. He was too relieved to be getting close to being finished to freak about carrying around that much money. Pushing the rendezvous from his thoughts, he checked what his brother had said.

_Sam (12:14 PM): We’ll be there around 3._

_Sam (12:16 PM): And by we I mean surprise! Gabe’s coming. Said he wants to meet with Novak and the others we represent on the Nats but I think he wants a chance to get to know you better._

_Sam (12:17 PM): By the way how are things going with Novak? I expect you to tell me all about it._

_Dean (1:34 PM): Course you brought Gabe you’re a little bitch. Get to know better my left ass he just wants to give me a hard time._

_Dean (1:35 PM): I’ll be there in bout an hour. Meet you in the lobby._

Chuckling, Dean topped off the tank and hopped back into the car, eying his phone nervously. Finally, with a sigh, he forced himself to load the texts from Jimmy. His phone had given up counting how many he’d received, instead it said: “ _Text from Jimmy Novak: 25+_.” The oldest popped up first.

_Jimmy (11:02 AM): Oh man the weather in SD looks fucking perfect. I’m jealous. It’s like a hundred fricken degrees here and so humid I feel like I’m choking and I gotta go out and play in this shit tonight._

_Jimmy (11:04 AM): Looking good Dean. Both of you do! That’s the calmest I’ve seen Cassie look on the mound in a month. Took my advice about BJs, huh?_

_Jimmy (11:10 AM): Hahaha look at Kemp swing through that pitch that was fricken sweet._

_Jimmy (11:14 AM): Wow, that was a fine slider. You mentioned you two were working on that – job well done, that was a thing of beauty._

_Jimmy (11:20 AM): It’s so interesting the way you call a game with Cassie. He and I had ways we always did things – fastball, fastball, change up, fastball, slider in the dirt, and OUT, that kind of thing. You never let it fall into a pattern. It makes you and he more effective together than he and I were. It’s a thing of beauty Dean._

_Jimmy (11:21 AM): Just like you are._

Dean couldn’t but smile as he put the phone aside, resolving to read through the rest once he was on the train to the hotel. Only fucking Jimmy would decide to spend his morning regaling Dean with play-by-play texting of the previous night’s game.

_Holy shit he’s awesome. How’d I get this lucky?_

Rather than question it, Dean allowed himself to enjoy it for a change. Just like this single season in the Majors, it wouldn’t last, but as long as it continued it was damn nice. Dropping off the car, Dean switched to public transit to get him downtown to the hotel. Thanks to Los Angeles traffic, it was a long trip, but Dean had plenty to do. It took him near an hour to read through all that Jimmy had sent, typing out periodic replies. Jimmy didn’t respond to the messages Dean sent –the time difference meant that it was late afternoon in Atlanta and Jimmy was presumably preparing for the Braves game against the Mets that evening – and Dean resolved to find a way to watch the game and do for Jimmy what Jimmy had done for him. Despite the cocky front the young catcher put up, Dean knew that Jimmy was troubled by his own performance that season, disappointed with his [on-base percentage](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On-base_percentage) and fretful that he hadn’t done enough for his team. It was bullshit, of course. Jimmy was playing awesomely, his OBP was like a .375 and he’d already [stolen 15 bases](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stolen_base) or something. Sure, his batting average was low and he was lagging his teammates in RBIs, but the first was because he kept getting walked and the second was because he was the lead-off hitter. He was playing well and the Braves fans had taken to him like the awesome, handsome son of a bitch he was. People _liked_ watching Jimmy play – that’s why he was neck-and-neck with Buster Posey to be catcher for the NL in the All-Star game.

Dean had checked into his hotel room, stashed his overnight bag, and found a comfy seat in the plush lobby by the time he’d finished. People came and went in a constant bustle, but on the West Coast no one recognized him and he happily sank into his arm chair and ordered a beer from an obliging staff member who ghosted around seeing if patrons needed anything. One or two drinks was an indulgence he could allow and the mild buzz of alcohol added to the warm glow he felt as he contemplated his…whatever Jimmy was.

_Dean (2:25 PM): Kick it in the ass, Jimmy. I’ll talk to you later k?_

_Dean (2:28 PM): And thank you._

_Dean (2:29 PM): This made my day._

_Shit, that’s true, I’m happier about this than I am about seeing my brother. The fuck, Winchester?_

Usually, Dean didn’t have _relationships_. He had one night stands or every-time-the-team-passes-through-town stands. It suited his unpredictable schedule and didn’t leave him feeling inadequate. Casual fucks didn’t care if Dean couldn’t provide a stable home, a stable income, a stable _anything_ , didn’t care that Dean’s life was utterly unpredictable from month to month, much less from year to year. Dating another player had always been out of the question. There weren’t many people in the league who were gay and most were even further in the closet than he was. Things were a bit looser in the majors, but in the minors even the rumor of homosexual behavior was avoided because the difference between getting a shot at the majors and being consigned to small ball for life was often as small as a thousandth of a percentile. A player who promised their team scandal was doomed. Once one had a contract in the majors, it was a bit easier. Locker rooms looked out for their own and if someone was _deviant_ they were shielded unless they acted especially stupidly. However, there were always exceptions. With someone like Gordon Walker around, Dean had to tread lightly. On the other hand…

…On the other hand, _Jimmy fucking Novak_. Fuck, they’d hardly even touched and Dean already felt closer to him than he’d felt to anyone he’d ever been with. Jimmy was a fuckin’ trip to talk to, funny and smart, and even though he was young he knew the game. He and Cas both were fricken pros, for all that they sometimes behaved juvenilely. As young as they were, unless they got hurt, they had easily a decade more of kickin’ the competition in the ass. Being saddled with an old-timer like Dean would only hold them back – constrain Cas on the field and Jimmy off it – and he did neither twin any favors by sticking around. _Unless_ …unless he could use his contacts to further their careers. Unless he could use his knowledge of the game to help Jimmy be a better catcher and Cas be a better pitcher. Unless he could use his eye as a scout to find a young catcher to work with Cas when Dean was gone. He didn’t have to be a millstone, he _didn’t_. Smiling at the possibility, smiling to realize that for the first time in a long time, his future didn’t seem entirely hopeless – _because Jimmy is in my life, because I can be a player that helps someone like Castiel Novak succeed, because within a few months I’ll never have dad’s debts dragging me down again, because when I asked Bobby if I could stay he said_ yes _. For once, everything is coming up Millhouse_.

_It won’t fucking last._

_But what if it did?_

_Dean (2:37 PM): Are we boyfriends?_

“What’re you lookin’ so happy about, hot stuff?” Dean jerked his head up, cheeks coloring, to be confronted by a grinning Gabriel Coleman holding a white cake box tied in twine. Perfect white teeth showed through his cocky smile, his light brown hair slicked back, and he wore a suit that Dean suspected cost as much as Dean had earned in some entire years of his life.

“Dude, you bang my brother. Don’t hit on me,” Dean replied with mock disgust. Gabriel laughed. “Where is Sam, anyway?”

“Checking in,” said Gabriel, shrugging and dropping into a chair beside Dean. “Paying the bill. Making sure we have room service prepared for tonight. That kind of nonsense. But this, this is the good stuff.” Tugging at the string, Gabriel set the cake box down and flipped the lid to reveal six small, attractively decorated cupcakes. “We’ve got vanilla cake with chocolate icing,” Gabriel explained, pointing as he spoke, “Almond cake with pistachio frosting, chocolate rum cake with amaretto frosting, spice cake with maple frosting, apple cake with honey frosting, and lemon cake with strawberry frosting.” The reverent way Gabriel said the last left no doubt where his preferences lay. Dean eyed the lot, each decorated with a small flower that he assumed was edible, and his stomach turned at the thought of eating that much sweet food. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get to it!”

By the time Sam joined them, Dean was on his third piece, and only Gabriel’s eagle-eyed stare had him eating the entire cupcake instead of taking only a bite and setting it aside. They were tasty but the rich sugary denseness of frosting had never been something he’d enjoyed much. Give him a nice slice of pie, flavor reliant on the freshness and natural sweetness of the fruit, with a light, flaky crust, and he was in heaven. At least this wasn’t dense cake, it was light and fluffy, but the topping was like stuffing a piece of sugared, flavored butter in his mouth. Chewing and swallowing was getting increasingly difficult.

“Wow, did you even give him a chance to say hello, Gabe?” laughed Sam, pulling up a third arm chair.

“What? He has to try them when they’re fresh or else how can we trust his opinion?” Gabriel answered.

“You’re not going to like his opinion regardless,” Sam said. “We’ve been over this. He’s going to side with me.”

“Never in your wildest dreams, mi alce,” cooed Gabe.

“ _What_ did you just call me?”

Dean let the squabble wash over him as he choked down another bite and turned to the almond cake. Thus far, all had been way too sweet, especially the ridiculous lemon and berry one. This one was a pleasant reprieve; the cake didn’t taste like fake almond flavor but like actual _almonds_ and the frosting was inexplicably lighter than the others. “This one,” he said with his mouth full, interrupting Sam mid-protest. A triumphant smile stole over Sam’s face and Gabriel looked scandalized.

“There are still two more you haven’t tried!” whined Gabriel.

“No need,” Dean managed around a mouthful of cake. “Chocolate is over-rated.” He swallowed hard, relieved to be done.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I love you but this is the end,” Gabriel looked skyward melodramatically. “I cannot marry into a family that produced such a heathen.”

“I’m proud of you,” said Sam, taking Dean’s hand and giving him a look that was intense despite the quirk of his lip and the twinkle in his eyes. “I knew you would see things my way.”

“No, mi alce, no, we cannot!” Gabriel bemoaned.

“You agreed to let Dean be the tie breaker,” Sam said.

“A mil,” offered Gabriel desperately, sliding off his chair to drop to his knees at Dean’s feet. “One-point-five to change your opinion.”

Dean didn’t know Gabriel well enough to know if he was serious. He surely had the money but no one would throw it around like that, and from the way Sam was scowling and rolling his eyes, Dean had to shake his head. “No deal. I’ll have to skip the wedding if I have to eat that garbage you liked best.”

“You brought this on yourself,” added Sam sternly. “I was prepared to have the different layers be different flavors – _you’re_ the one who insisted that we had to have it all be the same.”

“I take it back!”

“So, what do you want for lunch?” Sam continued as if he hadn’t heard Gabriel’s lament.

“But…but… _lemon_ …”

“You expect me to eat more after stuffing my face with four cupcakes?” Dean asked, laughing.

“And _strawberry_!”

“Good point,” Sam nodded, expression pensive. “We could—”

Dean’s cell phone pinged loudly enough to be heard over Gabriel’s whining. With a surprising flare of hope, warm and heartening, Dean grabbed it to see if it was Jimmy.

_Jimmy (3:06 PM): I thought Dean Winchester was straight as an arrow._

Dean grimaced, disappointment welling. He’d gotten ahead of himself. _Again._ They hadn’t even gone on an actual fucking date yet, how could they be boyfriends?

“Everything okay?” asked Sam.

“What? Yeah, yeah, everything is fine,” Dean muttered. _But we text and we talk on the phone and we had fucking amazing phone sex and…aren’t those things boyfriends do? I mean, fuck buddies by definition have to be having sex, and one night stands don’t keep calling, and no one only looking for sex would give a shit how I play baseball, and friends don’t masturbate together, and…_

“Aw, bad news after all, Dean-y? And you looked so happy earlier,” said Gabriel, complaints forgotten as he nodded sagely.

 _…so what_ are _we, then? Does it mean anything to him?_

_It means a lot to me. It means too much to me._

_Jimmy (3:08 PM): You idiot of course we’re boyfriends._

All Dean’s anxiety vanished in an instant, replaced by a broad grin and a loose joy that manifest as heat that eased his body. He couldn’t stop staring at his screen even as it faded to darkness.

“Earth to Dean,” said Gabriel. Sam waved a hand between Dean’s fixed gaze and his cell phone. “Whelp, he’s gone.”

“Wow, Dean, I had no idea,” Sam said with wonder. “What’s her name?”

“It’s not like that,” Dean said, praying his cheeks weren’t as red as the heat in his face suggested.

“Oh man, it’s so much worse than that, isn’t it?” laughed Gabriel. “What’s his name?”

“No, I—”

“What’re _their_ names?”

_Jimmy and Cas._

Aw, Christ, Dean was screwed.

* * *

Having Sam and Gabriel in Los Angeles for the Dodgers series proved the perfect distraction. He and Jimmy texted constantly. Sam was getting more and more insistent wondering who Dean’s flame was. The cash drop went smoothly, thank fricken God, and Sam was so focused on trying to corner Dean about his relationship that he didn’t even ask why Dean had to go to the park that night. The days between him and the National’s trip to Atlanta on Friday could have felt endless, but instead they passed quickly. When Dean wasn’t busy preparing for Reidy’s start on Thursday afternoon, he was with his brother and brother-in-law-to-be (which was still fucking _weird_ to contemplate). Given what a hard-ass Gabriel was at the negotiating table, Dean would never have anticipated that he’d be such joker but the more time they spent together, the more Dean recognized familiar patterns in his brother’s fiancée. The more time they spent together, the more of a resemblance Dean saw between Gabriel and himself. Gabriel maintained a calm, light-hearted façade to conceal the doubt and loathing beneath. There were hints of it in the self-deprecating things Gabriel said, in the way he glowed when Sam showed care towards him, in the jokes Gabriel made that only thinly masked bitterness. Sam was obviously enamored, so much so Dean wondered how Dean hadn’t noticed when he’d spent a month of the winter at Sam’s place in San Fran. There hadn’t been a peep about it, yet Sam was obviously in love with his boss and his boss just as clearly in love with him. Well, whatever made the bitch happy made Dean happy. Sam deserved to find his silver lining. He’d worked hard to get where he was.

_And what about my silver lining? What about how hard I’ve worked to get where I am?_

_That’s waiting for me in Atlanta._

Benadryl got Dean through the plane ride. After coping with his anticipation well, the instant he boarded at LAX his nerves went haywire, anxiety over seeing Jimmy colliding with his usual pre-flight jitters to leave him a wreck. He hated taking medicine to cope but when the stewardesses announced that they were closing the cabin door in preparation for taxiing to the runway and Dean felt his chest seize up and his breathing edging towards hyperventilating, he knew he had to take steps. One pill and fifteen minutes and he was out like a light. He woke to a still plane, the bustle of everyone gathering their things to debark, and Cas giving him a faint, unusually endearing smile.

_He’s pretty. I could get used to waking up to that._

_Seriously, Winchester, you’re seeing your boyfriend in hours and you’re fantasizing about his brother?_

In his defense, they _were_ identical. When he saw Cas’ face, it was tantamount to seeing Jimmy’s, right?

_Just keep telling yourself that, Dean. Just keep telling yourself that when you look at Cas, you’re thinking of Jimmy. Just keep telling yourself that when you fantasize about both of them, fantasize about the three of you together..._

Arriving at Turner Field on Friday morning, Dean high-tailed it to a forgotten janitorial closet that Jimmy had sent him directions to, turned a corner and was reminded vividly that _no_ , Cas and Jimmy’s appearance was _not_ interchangeable. Maybe it was Jimmy’s longer hair or the twinkle in his eyes or the animation to his features or his broad easy smile or his relaxed posture, but despite similar features Dean was sure he could never confused the twins.

 _Not that Cas isn’t good looking, too, of course he is, but Jimmy is_ beautiful _, more gorgeous than I deserve._

The term “closet” turned out to be grossly misapplied to their rendezvous location. The room wide and spacious and lined with shelves stacked with cleaning supplies. The instant Dean stepped in and the door slammed behind him Jimmy was on him, hot and solid and _real_ and kissing Dean breathless. Unthinking, Dean raised his arms to embrace the slimmer man, held him close, let Jimmy pin him to the closed door as their mouth came together and pulled apart, tongues twined and split, teeth nipped at lips. Dean’s reality narrowed to the sound of heavy breathing and the pleasure of what he once would have considered the modest pastime of making out – a waste of time before the main event – but now felt like the epitome of everything he’d craved for almost two months.

_…Jimmy moaning as Dean sucked him down, Cas watching and stroking himself and murmuring praise and instructions…_

Okay, maybe not the _epitome_ of _everything_ he’d craved, but fuck did it feel good, so much better than he’d have thought. Finally, Dean had his hands on his boyfriend.

After what felt like a lifetime, a tragically short lifetime, Jimmy drew away, panting. “Hey Dean.”

“Hey Jimmy,” Dean smiled, leaned in for another light kiss.

“Have I mentioned that I missed you?” Jimmy asked, running a hand roughly down Dean’s side, nipping at his chin.

“Once or twice,” said Dean.

Jimmy growled low and sealed their mouths together, half kissing, half sucking, and Dean groaned deep in his throat, eyes sliding shut. “I _really_ fucking missed you, Winchester.”

“Yeah…yeah,” murmured Dean. Reluctantly, he pulled back. Jimmy’s hands tightened on him, keeping their bodies deliciously flush “And I wish we could spend the next hour or six giving you something else to miss, but I can’t. I gotta get ready for the game tonight.”

“Why? Cassie’s not pitching tonight – not on ‘til tomorrow, is he?” There was a hint of alarm in Jimmy’s voice at the prospect. Neither brother liked playing against the other.

“Believe it or not, sometimes I’m expected to be more than Cas’ dedicated ball boy,” Dean drawled.

“That’s right – sometimes I expect you to be _my_ dedicated ball boy,” Jimmy mouthed against Dean’s neck, sucking against the sensitive skin barely hard enough to hurt, and – hopefully – not so hard as to leave a mark. “My brother doesn’t get to keep you to himself no matter how little I could blame him for wanting to do so.” Dean groaned and tried to quell every dirty thought that had his cock twitching in his jeans. “You like that? I suspected but...you like when I mention him, don’t you? Am I substitute Dean? For the Novak you _really_ want?” The playfulness of Jimmy’s tone kept Dean from feeling real anxiety. “Or is it the twins thing?”

“What can I say?” said Dean with a throaty chuckle. “One of you is fuckin’ awesome; two would be living the dream.”

“That what you think you’d be getting? Two of me?” Though Jimmy’s tone was coy, there was reservation in his expression and he drew back from Dean, leaving a damp, rapidly chilling spot on Dean’s neck.

“Fuck, no,” Dean laughed, giving Jimmy a reassuring smile. The beaming grin he got in return was fucking _priceless_.   _How_ i _ow_ _can I like him this much already? It’s all the talking and shit, like, he’s hot_ and _I’ve gotten to know him and that’s somehow magically fucking different than just thinking he’s gorgeous._ “But isn’t that what’s so fricken hot about it? I’d have you, smiling and laughing and teasing, with your ridiculous hair and your _gorgeous_ eyes, sweet and tender and aggressive, I can already hear ya taunting me into coming again and again.” Dean shivered at the heat and lust evident on Jimmy’s face. _Shameless, Winchester...and you both fucking_ love it _don’t you?_ “Then there’s Cas, all put together and brooding and uptight. At any moment something I do might piss him off and next thing I know I’d be on my own hard up in a cold bed with stern instructions to not lift a finger to touch my cock unless he said so.”

“And you’d like that?”

“You wouldn’t?” He barely kept himself from saying _you didn’t?_ and betraying his suspicions. _Just what_ was _their relationship?_ The only answer Dean got was a laugh.

“I’ll see you after the game, Dean,” Jimmy said when his laughter faded.

 _I wonder_ …

“Fuckin’ cock tease,” muttered Dean, adjusting himself.

“Text me your room number.”

Dean left without even a goodbye kiss, but that didn’t stop him from immediately pulling out his phone and texting Jimmy the hotel information.

* * *

The day passed in the usual frantic rush of game day. Fitzgerald had the start and Dean was catching for him. Turner apparently thought Dean had a shot against the Braves pitcher that night, some rookie with an unpronounceable name who even Dean, with all his time in the minor leagues, had never heard. Cas threw a practice session, too. Between working with the two of them and batting practice and meeting with the coaches and jetlag, Dean was exhausted by the time the game started at 8 and ready to face plant by the time it finally, mercifully, ended at 2 AM after a rain delay that had them cooling their heels in the locker rooms for more than an hour and a half. The rain exacerbated the aches and pains that he’d arrived with; it was bad enough that he’d worked two games in a row, bad enough that in between he’d spent hours trapped in an airplane chair, but adding on the lousy weather and the long day’s work, he had the nasty suspicion that he was going to have trouble getting out of bed the next morning. He was a hairsbreadth from telling Jimmy not to meet him but they had so little time together – only what minutes they could steal between now and when the Nationals flew back to Washington on Sunday night, less than 48 hours away. If Jimmy still wanted to see him, who was Dean to turn him down?

_God, I want to see him, want to touch him, want to hear him..._

There was a knock on his hotel room door moments after he stepped in and tossed his bag into the closet without pulling out any of his sweaty, disgusting clothes. He opened it hesitantly, anticipating Jimmy barreling into him and smothering Dean in kisses as had happened earlier, but instead Jimmy looked as tired and downtrodden as Dean felt.

“You didn’t have to come,” said Dean gently, stepping further into his room. His knee quaked as he took the step back and he grimaced, hoping Jimmy hadn’t noticed. The fewer people knew how busted up he was, the better. If word got out that he was playing hurt, his detractors would have yet another bludgeon for trying to force Turner and Milton to dump his ass.

Silently, Jimmy walked into the room – _fuck, has he always moved so_ gracefully _? –_ wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders and slumped into a loose embrace. Relieved at the lack of urgency, Dean met Jimmy with equal tenderness and care, brushing a gentle kiss against his cheek. “Wanted to,” murmured Jimmy. “I...look, it felt weird to say it when we were apart, but I care about you a lot, Dean. If I only get to see you for a few hours, I’m not gonna pass those up just ‘cause I’m tired.”

 _I wonder who dumped him_. _Who the fuck could be that monumentally stupid? He’s a treasure – an angel._

“I hear ya,” said Dean, running his hand repeatedly along Jimmy’s spine to ease him. He sighed and pressed closer to Dean. The age gap between them had never seemed greater, yet Dean found he didn’t mind. Jimmy’s behavior hadn’t left much room for doubt of his interest and Dean _wanted_ to believe him. “I didn’t want to tell you not to come, either. I’m glad you’re here.”

 _I do – I do believe him. At least for now, he wants me as much as I want him. Fricken_ wow.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Jimmy whispered.

“ ‘Course,” said Dean. “You can tell me anything.”

_What, really? Would you tell him anything?_

_But I want to know what’s hurting him, and I want to help. He keeps bringing up Cas. I wonder..._

_...but brothers, twins, aren’t_ really _like that, right?_

“I’ve been terrified about tonight.” Shocked, Dean glanced down at Jimmy, but Jimmy didn’t look at him, instead staring at Dean’s chest and using a finger to trace idly over the Nike logo on Dean’s t-shirt. “After the things we’ve talked about, I knew you’d have...expectations...and I don’t want to disappoint you, I don’t, and I do want you, but I don’t think I...” Jimmy shuddered. Dean murmured quiet, soothing noises in his ear.

 _Huh, maybe I don’t suck at this “being supportive” shit after all._ An errant thought suggested that comforting Jimmy reminded him, more than anything, of how he’d helped Sammy out when they were kids. That was a thought he didn’t want to examine too closely. _Is that how it’s supposed to be when you care about someone for more than sex? Or is it some creepy transference “I need someone to take care of” bullshit? Or some even more creepy “father complex towards my younger boyfriend” bullshit? Fuck..._

“My break up...” Jimmy sighed into him, somehow bringing them even closer, and Dean focused on the present. “I’ve never been with anyone else. I mean, I’ve fucked other people, but not been close to them, not like I was close with him, not like you and I have been getting close. And...it doesn’t feel right. I feel like I’m cheating on him. Is that crazy? It’s been six months, I should be over it, right?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” admitted Dean. _Six months...the Winter meetings...six months ago is when Jimmy was traded, when he moved to Atlanta. Six months ago is when Jimmy left Cas._ “I’m kinda terrified too. Not about tonight – I figured we’d fuck, not that I mind if we don’t. Sex is easy, that I can do. But all the rest of it? I like you, Jimmy. A lot. I’ve never had a boyfriend before and it’s fucking awesome – _you’re_ fucking awesome – but it’s kinda freaking me out. So if you’re not ready for this – whatever this is – I’m cool with that.”

“May I spend the night? Even if we don’t fuck?”

“I was hoping you’d want to.”

They didn’t even bother changing. Arms still entwined, bodies still close, they stumbled to the large bed together and flopped down, bodies tangled atop the comforter. Dean let Jimmy go only long enough to tug the blanket over them. He could swear Jimmy was asleep before Dean enfolded him once more in his embrace and Dean passed out almost as quickly.

The beeping of Dean’s alarm woke him to bright sunshine, aching joints, and a knobby elbow jammed into his stomach. Jimmy was asleep, not apparently disturbed by the beeping, and Dean hastily shut the noise off. They’d shed the blanket at some point but the room was warm enough that Dean was comfortable. Dean’s shifting did nothing more than cause Jimmy to stretch and press his face to Dean’s chest. With his posture relaxed, his long lean body pressed against Dean’s at as many points as possible, his hair even more of a mess than usual, Dean couldn’t help but stare. Jimmy was beautiful, smart, and so _trusting_ ; he looked intensely vulnerable as he relaxed in Dean’s arms.

 _What if hurt him? What if Cas really_ is _his ex? What if he doesn’t want to sleep with me? What if he does? What if I am just looking for a new kid brother to take care of? What if I am confusing feelings I have for Cas with those I have for Jimmy? What if..._

Jimmy yawned with a high pitched whine, nuzzled against Dean, sighed contentedly and slumped back into the steady rhythm of sleep.

_Fuck, he’s adorable._

_Seriously, I am so fucking screwed._

Holding Jimmy, it was impossible to care. This felt good, it felt natural, it felt _right_ , and Dean didn’t want it to end. There was no point in trying to sort through his feelings in the midst of their busy baseball schedules. Maybe the All Star break would give them time to figure things out, and, failing that, it’d have to wait until Dean was kicked off the team or the season ended. In the meantime, at least he could have something good for one dream year. Just as taking the job with the Nationals had felt like his one shot, his last shot, Dean looked at Jimmy and couldn’t help but think that he was looking at his last chance at the kind of happiness he’d watched so many others find over the years. If this was his big opportunity, he wasn’t going to waste it. Tossing his phone away, he curled around Jimmy despite the protest of his lower back, held him close, and let his eyes slip shut again. There was nothing so important awaiting him at the ballpark that it couldn’t wait another hour or two.

 


	9. Chapter 9

The spectacle was annoying. The beaming, smiling announcers were annoying. The excited cheers of the audience were annoying. The meaningless interviews with random fans about their ill-informed opinions were annoying. The entire fucking All Star _shit_ was annoying. Why did they even bother holding an All Star game? Every player and coach and manager knew who the best players in the game were, so what was the point of fucking masturbating about it on national television?

“You know, Cas, we don’t _have_ to watch the selection show,” Dean pointed out for at least the sixth time.

Dean Winchester was fucking annoying, too.

Unable to sit still any longer, Castiel leapt from his couch and paced the length of his living room. Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, open beer held negligently in his hands. His gaze followed Castiel, eyes that were usually breathtakingly green reading as mottled brown and gold in the low light. The room was modernly appointed with furniture that Jimmy had chosen, though he had taken none of it when he left. The TV was unnecessarily enormous, the lamps brushed metal with low-watt bulbs, the coffee table large, blocky and black. The dark couch was shiny leather that looked stiff but was actually comfortable; he and Jimmy had slept on it together more than once, euphemistically and actually.

_I wonder what Dean would think if he knew that?_

When Castiel didn’t answer, Dean reached out for the remote control and had a finger on the power button before Castiel snarled, “Leave it!” Shrugging, Dean settled back on the couch, crossed one leg over the other and took a sip of his beer, lips sealing over the bottle opening, throat fluttering and contracting as he swallowed. The entire effect was fucking _sinful_ and Castiel’s mind filled with inappropriate ideas.

_Why the fuck did I invite him here?_

_Because I didn’t want to watch this alone. Because Dean is my catcher. Even if Jimmy is selected for the team, even if I’m selected for the team, Dean is my catcher now, not Jimmy, not whatever other asshole is in the running – Posey or Molina or whoever. He’s my catcher and I want him here with me._

“It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Are you ready to meet _your_ 2016 National League and American League All Stars?” The audience in the enormous theater where the selection ceremony was held roared enthusiastically. More perturbed than he’d care to admit, Castiel threw himself on the couch, jostling Dean and the program cut to commercials.

“Are you fucking _kidding me_?” Castiel snapped, throwing up his hands.

“So…” Dean licked his lips, and Castiel found his mind wandering, but the images that came were no relief. Fucking that calm look off Dean’s face would be anything but soothing. _No, he’s not mine, that’s not why I invited him here tonight_. _But damn would it be sweet if I could…_ Dean didn’t try to resume what he’d been saying, glancing away from Castiel and staring at the commercials with a delicate flush on his freckled cheeks.

The commercial break was endless, ads evenly split between those featuring groups of excited friends sharing food while watching sports and high-fiving each other, and manly men using personal hygiene products “Designed for Men,” whatever _that_ meant. When the show finally resumed again, they were subjected to yet another montage. Players from teams all over the league flashed across the screen.

“What does it mean to _me_ to be an All Star?” asked Albert Pujols.

“Fame.” Jose Reyes grinned.

“It means I’m the _best,_ ” boasted Andrew McCutchen.

“A chance to represent my team.” That was David Wright.

“I get to play on the biggest stage on earth,” said a pitcher Castiel didn’t recognize.

“Who wouldn’t want to compete with and against the best of the best?” Prince Fielder shrugged as if he couldn’t care less.

So it went, quotes interspersed with shots of the best players in both leagues swinging bats or making spectacular plays or pitching. Castiel stole a glance at a scowling Dean. It was oddly comforting that the usually even-tempered man found the show as annoying as Castiel did.

“Knowing how this shit goes, it’s going to go to commercial break again after this…”

Dean’s prediction proved wrong. After the montage, four different announcers _finally_ divulged who’d be playing first, second, third and shortstop for the National League team, behaving with all the solemnity Castiel would have expected at the Academy Awards, incongruous with the raucously excited audience.

Another extended commercial break had Castiel sitting on the edge of the seat, one leg jittering anxiously. Just as the show resumed, a hand on his shoulder startled him and he jerked, causing a twinge in his oblique. His reaction in turn startled Dean, he drew away as if thinking better of his decision to engage.

“Woah, sorry Cas,” said Dean sheepishly. “Just – might as well relax. If they started with the infield they’ll probably do outfield next, and another set of commercials before they announce the pitchers and catchers.”

“What, you think that’s all I care about?” snapped Castiel. _Damn it, why am I always such a jerk to him?_

“I think all you care about is—”

“I do _not_ give a _shit_ if I’m on the team!”

“I think all you care about is whether or not you’ll be pitching to Jimmy,” reiterated Dean patiently.

_How the fuck does he always keep his goddamn temper? I’d like to break him again, like I did when he got angry in April, that was fricken gorgeous…_

“You son of a…” Castiel took a shuddering breath, ignoring as the commentators discussed the winning American League outfielders. “You’re right.”

“Why’d you even invite me over if you’re gonna be a douche…I’m right?” Dean blinked, surprised.

“It took me months to get used to not pitching to him anymore,” said Castiel, frustrated. “Having him for one game will feel like a…a…it’d be like a cock tease.” Dean continued  to blink at him, and Castiel turned back to the screen to hide the warm flush on his cheeks. “You’re my catcher now, Dean.”

“At least this season.”

“No, but—”

“Cas,” Dean held up a hand to cut him off and Castiel snapped his mouth shut, trying to keep his irritation from his face. “Don’t let it worry you right now. We’ll… _you’ll_ figure it out when it becomes an issue. There’s still a lot of baseball to play this season; worrying about next season is crazy.”

“For the American league, the catcher will be… _Brian McCann_! McCann has been selected to the All Star team for the 8 th time, and…”

“Get to the National League,” muttered Castiel impatiently as a clip played showing McCann fielding and batting. “Come on…”

“For the National league, the catcher will be…” Castiel’s heart caught in this throat, the momentary pause for dramatic tension seeming to last a lifetime during which he couldn’t breathe, and then the announcer continued, “Francisco Cervelli!”

“Thank fucking God,” Castiel burst out, slumping back in the couch. “Shit. I’m a terrible brother. I should be disappointed that it’s not him, he’s never been picked, and…fuck.” He exhaled in a loud rush. “I’m such an asshole. No wonder he left.”

“That’s not why,” said Dean quietly. Shocked, Castiel turned to stare at him, tuning out the montage depicting the best pitchers in the leagues, all those who might be selected to play. Dean met Castiel’s eyes for a moment then looked away, lips compressing, cheeks going pale in a way that brought out the scattering of freckles on his cheeks and nose. “Fuck, ignore me.”

“What do _you_ know about it?” _Fucking hell, I just admitted I’m a jackoff and here I am losing fucking temper_ again _. I never used to be angry like this, not when Jimmy was still around_. _Or was I? Maybe I was..._

“We’ve spoken a little,” admitted Dean, looking askance.

“He asked you out, didn’t he,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. Dean’s blush was all the answer he needed. “Son of a…he said he might, but I didn’t think he’d _actually_ …and you said yes?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, I said yes,” huffed Dean. “And he doesn’t think you’re an asshole, he thinks—”

“No.”

“But—”

“ _No_ , Dean,” interrupted Castiel. “If Jimmy wants to talk to me, he needs to talk to _me_.”

“You haven’t exactly made that easy for him to do,” Dean pointed out. He was _still_ calm, damn the bastard.

“So, what, you two talk about me behind my back?” Castiel barely held him back from shouting.

“Only the blow jobs,” muttered Dean. Castiel’s jaw dropped and Dean went white and then fricken _crimson_. “Shit. It’s just something Jimmy said once. No, we don’t talk about you much, and…look, they’re about to announce the National League pitchers, we should…we should watch, right?” Dean’s voice faded into relief.

 _Dean’s voice, moaning around Cas’ cock, those plush, pursed lips teased deep pink, his eyes open and sightless and lost with want as Jimmy fingered his prostate_.

“Dean—”

“You want to hear this, right?”

“—Greinke,” said the announcer. The audience roared.

“I’m thinking either deGrom or Harvey but not both, what do you think?” Dean interjected the moment Castiel opened his mouth again.

“Clayton Kershaw!”

“Arrieta, definitely,” muttered Castiel, allowing himself to be diverted.

“And maybe Francisco Rodriguez?” Dean suggested.

“Noah Syndergaard!”

“What, really? But deGrom’s got a much better ERA, and _Harvey_ —”

“Castiel Novak!”

With a big sigh, Castiel let go a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Dean gave an excited whoop, jumped to his feet, held out a hand to shake. Bemused, Castiel took it. “That’s _awesome_ , Cas! Two in a row, right?”

“Yeah, I was on the team last year,” said Castiel, nodding slowly.

“I bet you’ll be the starter,” said Dean, strangely smug at the prospect.

“Maybe,” Castiel shrugged. “Greinke’s got a lower ERA and Arrieta’s got more wins…”

“Fuck the false modesty, Cas, you’re one of the best!”

“All of us are the best,” countered Castiel.

“You don’t want to be the starter, do you,” Dean rolled his eyes, dropping their joined hands and settling heavily on the couch. The springs bounced under his weight. “Worried about going two innings pitching to Francisco Cervelli?” Castiel scowled. “How about this – I’ll help you prep, okay?”

“Dean…”

“Naw, man, it’s fine,” said Dean. “It’s 9 days from now, we got plenty of time to prep you for the American League starters, I’ll download the list when I get home tonight and see what I can find out about their hitting styles.”

Feeling the full weight of what a dick he’d been to Dean all evening, all season, and especially since the topic of Jimmy came up, Castiel grimaced, wondering what he should say. _Why is he always so fucking nice to me? And what the fuck does it matter if he’s dating Jimmy? It’s not like I want to_ date _Dean, I just sometimes want to shove my dick in his mouth and…fucking_ shut up _Novak…_

“Thanks, Dean,” he managed with a semblance of good grace, unable to escape the enticing fantasies.

... _and sometimes I just appreciate how calm I am when he’s around, when my brain stops working overtime and I can actually relax..._

“It’s no problem, dude,” Dean smiled. “Your success if sorta vaguely kinda my success. I can pretend, right?”

_...which is definitely not now..._

“It’s not pretend, Dean,” Castiel shifted his gaze, trying to catch Dean’s eyes. The TV screen shifted from a view of the dark auditorium hall to footage of a baseball game being played on bright, sunny days, and in the sudden illumination Dean lifted his gaze and Castiel fell into black pupils ringed by diaphanous gold dazzling from amidst deep green. It was all he could do not to gasp, all he could do to stare as Dean’s eyes widened and his mouth slid open and closed again, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “My season would not be going nearly so well if not for your help. It would mean a lot if you’d help me prepare for the game. Thank you.”

“Hey, no problem,” said Dean weakly, tearing himself away, running a hand through his hair as he turned back to the television. A clip montage ran through the pitchers selected for the National League team and Castiel glanced over to catch sight of himself wearing a familiar smirk, the look that said he’d just struck out the side. “I, uh, I’d better head out for the night. We got that weird-ass early game tomorrow, and I want to take a look at the AL All Stars, and, ya know, stuff. We’re still on for bullpen sessions at 8:30 tomorrow morning, right?” Castiel nodded, reluctant to let Dean go but there was no way Castiel could ask Dean to stay. “See ya then. Bye, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.”

Dean got up from the couch and fled like Castiel was chasing him. All Castiel could do was watch. He wanted Dean there – _want to suggest so much more than that, he’d look so pretty spread out on the leather couch. No,_ no _, Dean is not available, even if he is interested men, he’s dating Jimmy, he’s fucking gorgeous, he’d look so hot sucking my brother off while I fuck him open_ – and then Dean was gone, fricken hallelujah, and Castiel had his living room to himself again and the privacy to do something about his rapidly burgeoning erection.

 _Green eyes swallowed by black lust, cheeks flush save where freckles made pale dots, cock hard, ass tight from all those flawless muscles he built holding a catcher’s squat_ …Castiel never used to get off to thoughts of anyone but Jimmy, but there was something about Dean, something about _Castiel’s catcher_ , that compounded Dean’s physical and mental attractions and rendered him unbelievably alluring. _If Dean were dating anyone but Jimmy, I would…_

_…what? Date my team mate? Treat him as I once treated my brother? There’s nothing here that can be explored, at least not while it’s the baseball season, and certainly not while he’s with Jimmy._

_And yet, Jimmy and I already crossed so many lines when we decided to be with each other. What’s one more? What if we could be together, the three of us?_

_Don’t be an idiot, Cas. There’s no sign that Dean is interested and Jimmy surely hasn’t told Dean the truth of his and my relationship. If he did, even Dean wouldn’t be so even tempered. He’d be disgusted. There’s nothing to explore here. Move on._

With difficulty, Castiel redirected his thoughts, considering the All Star game to come, considering his next start against the Mets, and the evening passed. Nothing could stop his errant thoughts, though, nor the fantasies that came to him unbidden as he lay in the large, lonely bed that had once accommodated he and Jimmy every night they were in Washington DC.

No one needed to know that he turned off the light, stroked himself roughly and came gasping each well-loved name in turn.

* * *

Preparation for Castiel’s last game before the break pushed errant thoughts away. The timing of his starts worked well for his inclusion in the All Star game, ensuring he’d be well rested and that he and Dean would be able to arrive in San Diego a day early and settle in. There hadn’t even been a conversation about whether Dean would accompany him. The morning after the selection show, after their usual warm up, they’d settled in and discussed the probable American League starting line-up. Dean, as usual, was completely on top of things; true to his word he’d stayed up and done his research and he was, less than twelve hours later, thoroughly conversant with the players Castiel would likely be pitching to. The time Dean had spent in organizations throughout the league meant that he’d had exposure to many of the players already; thus, he could draw on formal statistical analysis of their play as well as his personal experiences behind the plate when they were at bat. Over the week that followed, they worked hard to get Castiel ready, redoubling their efforts when it was confirmed that the National League’s manager for the game had chosen Castiel as the starter. That guaranteed he’d pitch 2 innings, that Cervelli would be behind the plate, and that Castiel would see all of the AL starters.

San Diego was as perfect as it always was: the temperature in the 70s even in the middle of July, the sky blue and clear, a refreshing sea breeze rolling in from the ocean. That was pretty much the only good thing that Castiel could say about being in the city. With the game two days away, he still felt under-prepared. The anticipated line-up had changed three times already. Players voted as starters were being placed on the DL with complaints like “adductor fatigue,” medical speak for “the manager told me to write something so this player could have a couple weeks off without missing too many games.” The only one with an actual excuse was Alcides Escobar, who got hit in the hand by a fastball during the last game before the break and would be out for at least six weeks with a broken radius. Castiel had boarded the plane, binder in his carry-on, with the expectation that he and Dean would discuss things during the cross-country journey from New York City, but the flight had been turbulent and Dean had spent half of it with a white-knuckled grip on his armrests and the other half sequestered in the first class bathroom, choking and coughing loudly enough to be heard through the bulk head. Losing the prep time pissed Castiel off, the more so because he knew he _should_ be sympathetic, should be worried about his catcher, and instead he was once again proving himself selfish and self-absorbed. He was too preoccupied with his own nerves to force himself to behave better. He’d played in the All Star game before but being chosen as the starter was a rare honor. All eyes would be on him to show that he was worthy of the distinction. Everyone would expect to see the best pitcher in the National League standing on the mound. Castiel wasn’t sure he was worthy of that even at the best of times, much less on meager sleep, jet-lagged, stressed, pitching to a lineup composed mostly of batters he’d never played against before, with fricken Francisco Cervelli behind home plate. He’d never even _met_ Cervelli, wouldn’t be meeting him until the next day, and had only played against him a handful of times. When Dean proved too incapacitated to talk on the flight, Castiel loaded up his laptop and watched footage of Cervelli, but there was only so much he could learn that way. Cervelli’s style was nothing like Dean’s, nothing like Jimmy’s, and if Castiel was lucky they’d get a few hours of practice together before they had to play one of the highest stakes games of the year.

 _It’s not that high stakes, it’s an exhibition game – just an exhibition game that 15 million people watched, just an exhibition game that determines home field advantage for the World Series, just an exhibition game that the American League has won three years running and twelve of the last fifteen years. If the Nats make the Series, how nice would it be to open in DC, what a difference it would make! No, don’t think that way, pretend it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t_ really _matter, no one expects the National League to win anyway_.

Getting Dean the same accommodations as the All Star players proved impossible; dropping Dean off in front of his hotel prompted more irritation even though it was in easy walking distance between the two buildings. Dean’s wan smile as he apologized and suggested that they meet the next morning instead of that evening caused Castiel to grind his teeth together. The final insult, though, was when Castiel called over to check Dean’s opinion on the best approach to pitching to Miguel Cabrera.

“Dude, that’s like the fastest pizza delivery ever, I’ll be down in a minute,” said an unmistakable bright voice into the receiver. Jimmy. Jimmy had come to San Diego for the game, Jimmy was in Dean’s hotel room when Dean had said he didn’t feel well enough to do further game prep that day. Dean felt well enough to _entertain_ Jimmy, but not well enough to go over the American League’s official lineup with Castiel.

 _Those goddamn, mother-fucking_ assholes.

“I’ve got cash – what was the total again?” called Dean from the background.

 _I should have called Dean’s cell phone_.

“What do we owe you?” Jimmy asked.

“I’m not the pizza man,” Castiel replied, his voice flat with anger.

“Shit, Cassie!” False cheer instantly replaced the actual happiness that had been obvious when Jimmy had initially answered and Castiel’s stomach twisted to hear the difference. _I used to make him happy like that. Last year, he stayed in my hotel room during the All Star game._

_When I asked Dean if he wanted to stay with me, he said no. Now I know why._

“How are you?” asked Jimmy, faltering. Castiel couldn’t bring himself to answer. “I guess you want to talk to Dean?”

“That was why I called, yes,” Castiel said coldly.

There was a rustling suggesting Jimmy set the phone down and Castiel heard Jimmy faintly apologizing to Dean. There was a delay before Dean picked up and said, “Hey, Cas, what’s up?” A little of Castiel’s anger dissipated to hear how poorly Dean sounded, like his throat was scoured by how sick he’d been on the plane. _Except he didn’t sound that sick on the plane right after._ The entire scene painted itself instantly in Castiel’s mind in vivid detail: the two men met at the hotel, retreated to their hotel room, lips locked together the moment they had privacy, all the beautiful sounds Castiel _knew_ Jimmy capable of making, all those he could imagine in Dean’s low, gruff voice, Dean lavishing kisses on Jimmy’s lips and chin and neck and chest and belly, freeing Jimmy’s cock from his pants and sucking and caressing and swallowing until Jimmy came apart and Dean had worn his throat raw. As the silence stretched out, Dean coughed raggedly.

“Ugh, sorry,” said Dean, voice muffled for no obvious reason. “Look, try to take a night and relax, will you? Everything is fine.”

“Of course, I’m sorry I interrupted your date night.” Castiel wished he could pretend that he sounded snide or angry, but more than anything he sounded petulant, and his anger flared even hotter. “I hope you realize that I still expect to see you at 9 tomorrow morning, as we discussed.”

“I know, Cas,” said Dean. “Have I ever been late?”

_No, no he hasn’t, quit being such an asshole._

_No. He’s mine_.

For the life of him, Castiel had no idea which of them he meant. Maybe it was both.

“Are you still meeting with Cervelli at noon? Do you want me to bring Jimmy to our sessions?” asked Dean.

“My meeting with Cervelli is at _one_ ,” corrected Castiel. Fucking hell, sounding snide didn’t improve things at all. “And no. Jimmy isn’t my catcher. You are. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Dean, tone of voice beyond Castiel’s comprehension. _His throat is just too fucked out for me to_ _understand him_. _Asshole._ Castiel hung up, slamming his phone down on his nightstand. His thoughts screamed anger and betrayal that he knew he had no right to feel, but no amount of intellectual distancing made a difference, he couldn’t help his emotional response. Furious, he stood and paced the room frenetically. He had to _do_ something. If he were pitching right then, he’d channel it all into intensity, into throwing the next pitch perfectly, into satisfaction when he struck out the side. Pitching wasn’t an option. His thoughts screamed for physical exertion to use up the excess energy coursing through him but he knew it was a bad idea. If he went for a long run or did some weight lifting or swam and hurt himself it’d be a disaster. He was on track to have the best season of his career; he’d be an idiot to screw it up because he couldn’t control his temper.

_A good, hard fuck would help too…_

The thought appealed, but there was no way to satisfy it. There were only two people in the world he wanted, and though both were close at hand, they were too busy satisfying each other.

“ _Fuck_!” he roared. Grabbing the nearest thing to hand – the room’s phone – he hurtled it at a mirror hung on the far wall. It shattered, silvered glass raining on to the leather desk and the floor. For a moment Castiel could do nothing but stare at it in wild-eyed confusion. _I did that._ I _did that._

 _Shit, what’s the matter with me_?

Deflating, Castiel sank onto the edge of the enormous bed in the room, comforter in a bright, cheerful shade of red, accented with pillows in black and white. His head dropped into his hands, and to his amazement tears welled up.

_If I’m alone it’s because I drove Jimmy away, just like I’m driving Dean away. He probably thinks I hate him, I’m such a jerk to him all the time, and what does it say about him that he just takes it? And Jimmy. I drove my own brother away, lost him so completely that he couldn’t even bring himself to talk to me before accepting the trade that divided us. If he’d dumped me by text message it’d have been more personal. And that’s not him. He’s not like that. I did that to him. I’m the problem, because he didn’t feel he could talk to me, because I didn’t make our relationship safe for him._

_I drove him away so completely that he didn’t even tell me he was coming to San Diego._

The tears fell more quickly, harder, embarrassing noises catching in his throat before he could stop himself. With a frustrated roar that came out more like an agonized sob, Castiel threw himself back on the bed, pressing his palms against his eyes in a futile attempt to stop crying.

_I’m stronger than this, I’m better than this, this doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t, I can fight this down, I can push this aside and focus on what needs to be done._

Castiel hadn’t cried once, hadn’t _allowed_ himself to cry a single time, since Jimmy had left.

 _Why should I push this aside? Why should I focus? There’s nothing that needs to be done, not tonight, and it’s bullshit to say it doesn’t hurt – it does, it hurts so much, Jimmy has been a part of me since we were born, and I thought I was a part of him but clearly I’m not, he doesn’t need me. It’s so unfair, why do I need him when he doesn’t need me? What did I do wrong? What_ didn’t _I do wrong?_

A knock on the door burst loudly into the room and Castiel gasped and tried to stop the tears.

“What?” he snapped, voice cracking.

“Excuse me, sir, we had a report of a loud noise and breaking glass in this room, we wanted to check if everything was alright,” said a polite woman’s voice.

“It’s fine,” Castiel managed. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this even though the empty mirror frame taunted him from where it yet hung on the wall. “I…” Fuck, there was no way he could tell the truth. “The mirror fell onto the table and broke, but I don’t want to be disturbed tonight. Someone can clean it up tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t do that, it’s a liability issue. I’ll send someone up shortly to clean it up, alright? We can move you to a new room if you’d like.”

“It’s obviously _not_ alright,” said Castiel angrily, “but since I have no choice, fine. I’m staying here, though.” Scrubbing at his eyes, pushing aside all the pain and anger and sadness, he forced himself to rise and adjust the scene to match his lie. Pulling the empty frame down proved easy; it landed with a heavy _thunk_ on the desk and triggered a tinkling cascade of glass fragments to patter on to the carpeted floor. He left the phone amidst the wreckage. Removing it would risk cutting his hand and the phone was obviously damaged anyway. Dejected and drained, Castiel settled into a plush chair across the room, holding tears at bay as he waited for whoever was going to clean the room. The woman who finally arrived had a cheerful smile and a can-do attitude, suggested that Castiel leave to get some food while she worked, accepted when he said coldly that he wasn’t hungry, and didn’t raise any questions as to how the damage took place. When she was done and Castiel finally had some fucking privacy again, he curled up on the bed and wallowed in every dark thought he’d ignored for so long, every small suggestion that the bad things that had happened were the result of his own behavior. No more tears came, no more anger overflowed, no further expressions of the emotion roiling him escaped. No epiphanies came to Castiel as he lay, only the same self-condemnations going around over and over again. Sometimes he dozed, but no new insight awaited him when he drifted to awareness from the depths of his troubled, shallow sleep.

It was a very long night.

Knocking woke him to the dull glow of sunlight hitting the curtains. The lamps in the room were still on, the wall that had once held the mirror seemed too large now that it was empty, and his mouth felt fuzzy and tasted gross. His eyesight blurred in and out of focus, the inevitable result of wearing his contacts overnight. He struggled to read the clock, but he was pretty damn sure that the first digit wasn’t a 9; it looked like a 7. _So, like, 10 AM. Fucking jetlag_.   _Dean would never be two hours early, so who the fuck..._

“Who’s there?” Castiel asked, his voice coming out as a gravelly growl.

“It’s Jimmy,” came the terse reply.

In his heart, Castiel thought he should feel _something_ , but he was completely numb. Rising, he mechanically crossed to the door and opened it. Jimmy looked…he looked fantastic, Castiel thought unhappily. Dressed for a jog in the beautiful weather, he wore a loose t-shirt in Braves colors, a pair of skin-tight knee-length shorts highlighted shapely muscles and his hair had grown long enough that he could pull it back into a scraggly ponytail. His cheeks showed a fine tan from half a season’s play and his lips were quirked into an awkward, apologetic smile. In comparison, Castiel felt a mess, still wearing the same outfit as the day before: the same outfit he’d flown across the country in, wept in and slept in. His bladder chose that moment to remind him that he hadn’t used the bathroom since he’d woken up, and with a grunt he gestured Jimmy into the room and wordlessly dodged into the bathroom. When he was done, Jimmy was pacing back and forth – the exact same path that Castiel had paced the night before, he recognized with a sigh – with his head down and his hands behind his back.

“What are you doing here?” said Castiel bluntly. _Remember all that shit you thought last night about how you’d been an asshole and maybe you shouldn’t do that anymore? Off to a great start, Cas…_

“I wanted to talk to you,” Jimmy replied, shrugging. “I’ve tried calling and texting, but you never answer so I figured you didn’t want to talk to me. That’s fine – that’s your choice – but it means that if I have something to say to you I have no choice but to pin you down and make you listen.”

_Pin me down? That’s not how this works..._

“I don’t—”

_I pin Jimmy down, not the other way ‘round..._

“No, you don’t,” interrupted Jimmy, his tone implacable even though he seemed incapable of lifting his gaze to meet Castiel’s. “You have to hear this. You _will_ hear this.” _Please look at me, I miss your gaze, I miss how blue your eyes are when you care about me_. “You don’t want me in your life. Fine. But you’ve chosen to have Dean be a part of your life – or at least part of your career – and you said you didn’t mind if I pursued a relationship with him. You’ve never _lied_ to me before, Cassie.”

“I didn’t lie,” Castiel lied.

“And it’s a damn good thing you’ve never lied to me before, because you’re shit at it,” Jimmy finally looked up but only long enough to roll his eyes. “Quit taking your anger out on him. He didn’t dump you. He didn’t get traded. He didn’t leave. He has done every single damn unreasonable thing you’ve asked of him – all the things you used to ask of me and then some, except that you and he aren’t brothers and you’re not fucking. He even came here with you. You didn’t even ask him to come along did you – you just assumed he would, so he did. Right?”

“Dean is an adult,” said Castiel dryly. “A big boy who can take care of himself. If he wasn’t interested in helping me prepare for the All Star game, he could have said no.”

“Come off it,” Jimmy snorted. “Have you ever seen him decline to do anything, even shit that was above and beyond the call of duty? He’s so desperate to stay in the big leagues, so sure that riding your coattails is his only shot, that he’s destroying his body to do it and you’re so oblivious you haven’t even _noticed_.”

“Dean Winchester is not _riding my coattails_ ,” snapped Castiel. “He’s as good a catcher as you are – _better_ – and I’m a better player because he’s behind the plate. I shouldn’t have to tell _you_ that, of all people. He’s…” Castiel trailed off as Jimmy looked up; in the darkened room, his eyes were the deep blue of the sky at sunset. Struck momentarily speechless, the rest of what Jimmy said finally processed. “What do you mean he’s destroying his body?”

“His knees are getting so bad he can hardly get out of bed,” said Jimmy. “You should have seen him this morning. It was painful to watch, the more so because he’s so obviously and uselessly trying to hide it from me.”

“The state of Dean’s knees is _definitely_ my fault,” Castiel replied acidly. “I’m sure your extracurricular activities with him have _nothing_ to do with it.”

“So am I,” Jimmy’s voice was tight with anger. Castiel blinked at him, not understanding. “I’m _positive_ that nothing Dean and I do exacerbates the pain in his knees because he and I _haven’t done anything_.” Amazement was followed immediately by disbelief, and Castiel looked skyward, scoffing. “I mean, fine, we have phone sex from time to time, but every time we get close to actual intimacy all I can think of is _you_ and it’s over before we even start. And he’s cool with that.” Jimmy shook his head in wonder. “I think he’s so glad to have someone give a shit that he doesn’t mind that we’re not fucking. Cassie, he’s treating you _just the same_. He’s so grateful that you want his help, that you are giving him a chance, that he genuinely doesn’t care that you’re riding him so hard. He won’t tell you to stop until he lands on the DL or is forced into retirement. So, if you really want him to be your catcher this season, much less in any future seasons, you’ve got to lay off.”

“I _do_ want him to be my catcher,” said Castiel. _I want both of you to be my catchers. Is that selfish, too? I can’t even tell anymore. Maybe I could never tell_.  “I’m…used to him. I need his help.”

“Do you need him to take all of your bullpen sessions in addition to his starts each week?”

“If this were really as big a problem as you say, Singer wouldn’t let Dean play; Turner would have put him on the DL to heal,” Castiel said. “You and Dean…and I…might be sentimental about this kind of thing, but not them.”

“You don’t think Singer is sentimental?” Jimmy laughed. “Have you ever met the man? Singer and Dean’s dad were, like, BFFs or some shit. Dean doesn’t talk about it much but as far as I can tell Singer practically raised Dean. Singer won’t pull Dean from the game until he keels over.”

“It’s not my responsibility to be Dean’s keeper or some shit,” said Castiel. “If he’s playing hurt that’s his choice, why should I change my routine over it? He knew what he was signing up for.”

“That’s it? ‘He’s hurt and that’s not my problem?’ What the fuck, Cassie? Is that what you’d say if it were me? Is that—” Jimmy cut himself off, turning away from Castiel, hands on his hips angrily. “You know what, never mind.” _I love it when you’re passionate_. “Forget I said anything.” _I love it when you’re candid._ “Forget I stopped by.” _I love it when you’re caring_. “Forget I fricken _dared_ to suggest that Castiel Novak, ace of the Nationals, 9 wins under his belt at the break, starter for the National League for the All Star Game, should put anything or _anyone_ ahead of his own career.” _I love it when you remind me of who I am, remind me of who I should be, when you push me to be better on the field and off._ “In exchange, why don’t you forget you’ve got a brother?”

 _I love you_.

Heart sinking, chest aching, Castiel crossed the space between them.

 _I love you_.

He wrapped his arms around Jimmy’s waist, lay his head on Jimmy’s shoulder.

_I love you so much I can’t stand it._

His brother was warm and solid and grounding in his arms, absolutely divine.

_All I want is for this pain inside me to go away._

A flicker of panic told him it would only last an instant; Jimmy went stiff and resistant, but he didn’t pull away. _All I want is you back in my life, for things between us to be the way they were before._

“I’m sorry,” Castiel breathed. “You’re right – you’re right about everything. Please—” Jimmy released a deflating sigh, interrupting Castiel.

_Maybe…maybe with Dean involved. That would be okay, too. He’s…different. Just like you’re different._

“Let me go, Cassie,” said Jimmy sadly.

“Jimmy, please!”

“We can’t…I can’t do this right now,” Jimmy said, ineffectually trying to shake Castiel off. “It’s not enough that you’re sorry after the fact, you’ve got to learn to recognize this shit before you go off the deep end.” Reluctantly, Castiel let go of his hold, the hollow in him aching, constricting his throat. “But more than that…I care about Dean and I think he cares about me. He knows I went through a breakup that left me a bit busted and instead of it making him want to leave, would you believe he was _relieved_? He’s so used to relationships where people expect everything from him that it made him happy that I didn’t. I won’t let you hurt him by demanding more than he’s able to give, cause he _will_ destroy himself to give it. He’d give you anything you asked for, Cassie.”

“And you think he’ll accept it if I tell him to take care of himself?” asked Castiel skeptically. “Jimmy, I get that you don’t like how I said what I said, but it’s true – if I go to Dean and tell him to go easier on himself, he’ll ignore me. If I go to him and tell him I don’t need his help as often, he’ll get upset. I know him well enough to predict _that_ , anyway.”

“Figure something out,” said Jimmy. “Even the few days of the All Star break to rest would help. Look, I have to go; if I don’t get back soon he’ll wonder what’s up. He’ll be here at 9 just like you discussed.”

Castiel should be angry. That was how he usually reacted at times like this. But in light of the previous evening, in light of their conversation, he couldn’t bring himself to feel that spark of rage. He wasn’t sure _how_ he felt in the absence of the familiar heat of anger masking sadness and betrayal and loneliness. He watched, struggling for the right words, as Jimmy turned, met his eyes for a moment and headed for the door.

“I don’t want to watch you walk out again,” he managed when Jimmy got a hand on the door knob. His brother froze, back tensing.

“I’m going to anyway,” Jimmy replied resolutely, each word producing a stab of pain to Castiel’s chest. “But that doesn’t have to be the same as goodbye, if you don’t want it to be. You know how to contact me, Cassie.”

“That’d be okay?”

“That’d be okay.”

“I love you, Jimmy,” Castiel whispered, unable to stop himself, daring to hope that Jimmy hadn’t heard him. No such luck; Jimmy turned, a breath-taking smile on his face, his eyes catching the faint light and seeming to glow deep blue. Despite himself, Castiel reached out a shy hand, but Jimmy dismissed the gesture with a slight shake of his head and Castiel let the arm fall to his side.

“Good luck tomorrow, Cassie,” was all Jimmy said, and then the door clicked open, slammed shut behind him, and he was gone.

Crumpling into the chair at the room’s computer desk, Castiel stared blankly at the door and tried to figure out how the fuck he was _supposed_ to feel because all he _actually_ felt was empty.

* * *

Dean was punctual as always and fully prepared to discuss the coming game. He brought a bulky duffel bag and the apparent expectation that sometime later in the day, he and Castiel would be doing bullpen practice. With Jimmy’s words echoing in his head, Castiel managed to casually dismiss that idea, suggesting that he would take his bullpen with Cervelli since they’d be playing together the next day. Dean was obviously surprised, and while he didn’t object he did promise that he’d be on the sidelines ready offer feedback and support and, if necessary, to jump in as catcher. Watching Dean move about the hotel room as they worked, observing when Dean stood up or sat down, amply demonstrated what Jimmy had warned Castiel about. Dean was hurting, not even subtly, and Castiel hadn’t even noticed.

Cervelli was punctual too, quiet and professional. Castiel had low expectations of Cervelli’s abilities behind the plate given how high Cervelli’s [slugging percentage](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slugging_percentage) was, but he was pleased to find that Cervelli was as prepared as Dean. Castiel’s nerves still twanged at the thought of pitching to someone other than Dean or his brother but there was something steady about Cervelli that quieted his fears. Their bullpen practice wasn’t a disaster and Dean shared his thoughts afterwards with all the easy professionalism of a coach. Cervelli listened attentively, further improving Castiel’s opinion of him. Listening to Dean’s sage advice, Castiel thought he saw Dean’s future. Even when his health rendered him no longer able to stand the rigors of a season on the field, he’d be able to stay in baseball if he wanted to.

_Maybe next season, he can be my pitching coach instead of my catcher. Not a replacement for Singer, but a supplemental. I can’t imagine Singer would mind. If the team doesn’t want to hire him, I could pay him myself._

Unless something catastrophic happened, Castiel anticipated earning close to three million dollars in the 2017 season. He could afford to hire Dean for a couple hundred thousand. It was definitely worth considering.

By the end of the day, Castiel was cautiously optimistic about the upcoming game and so tired he easily fell into a dreamless sleep despite admonitions from every player he encountered other than Dean and Cervelli that he should stay up and watch the Home Run Derby.

Game day was pure fucking chaos. Between media appearances, promotional shooting for commercials and game montages, interviews, and photographs, Castiel didn’t have a moment’s peace. His warm up was hurried and unpleasant, Cervelli was hustled off far too soon to take batting practice, and despite Castiel’s repeated requests neither Dean nor Jimmy were permitted to take Cervelli’s place as Castiel’s bullpen catcher. Instead, Castiel pitched to some fossil whose name he couldn’t remember. The guy could hardly square his glove, much less make an adequate target for Castiel to aim for, and Castiel worried that if he pitched all-out he’d hurt the old man. By the time of game start, he was a frazzled wreck. At least his temper was still quiescent. He was too busy with the game to worry about his unresolved feelings from the previous morning.

Inexplicably, but not unhappily, he was still calm even after he pitched some of the worst innings of his career. It was a small, gratifying sign of respect that Terry Collins – usually the Mets manager, chosen to manage the NL All Star Team because of his performance the previous season – allowed Castiel to finish out his time on the mound despite how poorly he performed. At least the fielders and batters came through and kept the National League from getting completely shelled – they came out of the first two innings only 2 runs down, not an insurmountable deficit.

When he was done, he retreated to cool down and watch the remainder of the game. The event staff finally relented and let Castiel join Dean and Jimmy in the box seats they had, a private booth sponsored by the Braves and populated by executives and players who wanted to watch the game. They sat together, mostly in silence, and watched tensely. The relief that Castiel felt when the other pitchers for the National League pitched as poorly as he did was small comfort when the team lost badly, but by the end of the night that wasn’t what had frustration seething through him. No, as much as it rankled Castiel could place the exact moment when irritation had finally started to bubble up inside him. He’d been sitting beside Jimmy and Dean when Cervelli had made a good catch; the two had given each other broad grins and exchanged casual high fives, sensitive to their public position and the risk of exposure if they were too friendly. It was a casual, easy display of camaraderie and Dean wore a happy, excited smile different from any expression Castiel had seen on his face. It wasn’t the glow of executing a successful play or making a good hit, nor the casual pleasure he displayed when the Nationals won a game. This was more intimate, more open, more vulnerable. Castiel was ready to have that look aimed his way, but neither Jimmy nor Dean made a move to share the moment with Castiel. He felt a burst of angry heat at being excluded.

He was _jealous_. He didn’t think he’d ever felt jealousy before. He wanted to be with Jimmy, obviously – he always wanted to be with Jimmy – but every fantasy of the past couple months reminded him that in his unpoliced moments, he wanted to be with Dean, too.  He was jealous of _both of them._ It made him angry that Dean got to be with Jimmy when Jimmy was the only person Castiel had wanted for most of his life. It made him just as angry that Jimmy got to be with Dean, that Castiel had _finally_ met someone else who interested him and Jimmy got there first.

By the end of the evening, Castiel had to conclude that the only thing worse than having one person around whom he cared for and wanted but couldn’t have was having _two_ such people. If he were only upset about Jimmy it might not be so bad. Castiel only saw Jimmy when the the Braves played the Nats which, granted, they’d be doing a lot in the second half of the season. However, he interacted with Dean every day, watched him on the field, get a close view of the way his pants hugged his thighs and ass every time he rose, every time he dropped into his squat. got constant reminders of how intelligent Dean was, what a warm personality he had, what a pleasure Dean was to work with.

Working with Dean was going to drive Castiel _crazy._

At least if Castiel took Jimmy’s advice and encouraged Dean to be a bit less active, Castiel would be spared some of that exposure. Small blessings, as his mother would have said.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the opening note I mentioned that I modified real life people for my needs. This chapter contains a major exception to that: the players I mention here as being out of the closet are all actually out of the closet.

Repressing a yawn, Dean knuckled his cheek and pretended he was working his jaw. It was silly to posture for these assholes but he couldn’t help. He’d watched them throw their weight around in the underground gambling rooms that John Winchester had frequented, watched them bully John, watched them beat the shit out of debtors who didn’t fall in line with their wishes. If Dean didn’t act brave, he might show how intimidated he was and render his situation even more tenuous. He wouldn’t put it past Douche Bag to demand more money now that Dean had finally coughed up the extortionate final payment.

 _Not extortion. Fucking dad actually ran all this debt up, a quarter million dollars of it,_ and _agreed to the ludicrous interest rates. They haven’t extorted from me, they extorted from him, and the worst part is he was fucking grateful for it, I bet he fucking begged for this loan and thanked Douche Bag for it when the money came through. He was a fucking idiot. Never again. I will never make the same mistakes he made_.

“How many times do you have to count it?” asked Dean grouchily. “It’s all there.” The only answer he got was a steely, narrowed-eyed glare from a man with a pocked face wearing a suit that made him look like a Rat Pack reject.

_It’s almost done. I’m almost done. After this I can go home, go to sleep, and I’ll never have to think about this again._

Dean couldn’t imagine what that would feel like. Douche Bag had come knocking the day after John’s funeral. For a decade, Dean had worked for them more than for himself. They’d never breathed down his neck but Dean had always been prompt with payments. He didn’t want to think what might have happened if he hadn’t been able to pay. His kneecaps were the least of what they’d threatened to damage and, with how much pain he’d been in the last week, he was keenly aware of how much he needed those. Dean’s phone pinged, interrupting his train of thought, and he checked it against his better judgment, too desperate for the distraction to care how he might look to Douche Bag and his goons as they diligently counted bills for at least the fourth time.

_Sam (9:32 PM): Are we still on for drinks at 10?_

_Dean (9:34 PM): Sure thing Sammy see you then._

“Alright, it’s all here,” said Douche Bag in his smarmy accent, adjusting his bowler hat. _Who the fuck wears one of those fucking things, anyway?_ _He’s such a freaking douche canoe._

_Soon, I’ll never have to see him again._

“Have I ever short-changed you?” Dean snapped. _For fuckssake Winchester, hold your temper for ten years and now that it’s almost over you’re gonna blow it? Need my fucking kneecaps..._

“No, you’re nothing like your father.” Douche Bag broke into a crooked, humorless smile. “That’s a compliment.”

“I took it as one,” Dean replied. _About the highest compliment someone like him could pay me._ “We’re done, right?”

“Yes, we’re done.” Douche Bag nodded. Reaching into his pocket, Douche Bag withdrew a worn sheet of paper and a lighter. The paper was familiar, listing every payment Dean had made over the years and how much he’d still owed. Douche Bag set flame to the corner of the crinkled sheet and it was so old and dry that it went up in smoky red instantly. A weight Dean never remembered lifting eased off his shoulders, his chest loosened, and he took a deep, strengthening breath. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Winchester. If you ever need anything, you know where to find us.” Tersely, Dean nodded and started to turn away. “Oh, and Winchester?” He stopped, heart pounding. This could all still go so wrong. Something flew through the air towards him and Dean reached out and caught it instinctually even as his thoughts screamed to let whatever it was sail by. His fears were unfounded, though. It was a baseball. Douche Bag held out a sharpie. “For my kids?”

Laughing wryly, Dean signed the ball with a flourish. “Anyone else?” he asked. Sheepishly, one of the goons stepped forward, offering Dean a souvenir program from the Giants game two nights ago. The guy should have been pretty satisfied with the game, assuming he was a Giants fan; Cas had pitched well but the Giants had gotten to the bullpen, Reznick got utterly destroyed and Alfie allowed more runs in one game than he had in his past ten games combined. Poor Reznick had been demoted to the minors immediately after. Dean flipped through until he found the picture of himself and signed it. When neither of the other two stepped forward, Dean gave the gangsters a wave and retreated to his rental car.

The engine started with a rumble, the car door slammed shut, his knees protested as he shifted into a more comfortable position, Dean set his hands on the wheel and looked out the windshield, but his vision blurred the night so badly he could scarce see the road for the tears in his eyes.

_I’m free. John Winchester is finally fucking dead. What would he say if he knew I’d paid off all his old mistakes? Good job, son? No. I bet that’s why this hurts so fucking much. If he were here he’d tell me what an idiot I am, how I should have tried to negotiate Douche Bag to a lower rate or pretended that I didn’t have the full amount. He’d tell me what a shit player I am. He’d tell me that I swing too much from the hip and that’s why I’ll never make it in the big leagues. He’d say that if I’d been half the player I should have been I’d have been making millions and the debt would have been paid off years ago. Somehow it’d still be my fault._

_I’ve done my best._

_And no matter what he said, my best_ is _good enough._

A honk pulled him from his thoughts, the loan sharks driving by him and giving him broad smiles. They should fucking smile, he’d just handed them two hundred thousand dollars in cash. Son of a _bitch_.

Wiping his eyes, Dean gathered his thoughts. It _did_ feel good. For once in his life he’d accomplished something difficult entirely on his own, something his father had _never_ managed. He was free and clear and he hadn’t relied on old contacts or under-the-table favors.

The next check he got would be _all his_.

Alone in a shady corner of the Presidio, Dean burst out a laugh, unable to stop himself, and then another, another, laughing so hard he could scarcely breathe, laughing so hard he cried in happiness and relief at the sheer bliss of being _free_.

* * *

Meeting Sam highlighted the contrast between Dean’s life and his brother’s. For all of John’s big league success, he’d stuck to his blue collar roots. He had no idea what to do with money other than waste it and he was always more comfortable in a seedy bar than in the posh surroundings of a martini joint like the one where Sam had made them reservations. Sam had made them _reservations_ to get _drinks_. The valet parking out front took the rental from Dean and scowled when he only tipped them five dollars, the maître d’ smiled at him unctuously and called him by name as if they were old friends, and Sam had beaten him there, gesturing with his drink for Dean to take a seat and quirking an eyebrow at Dean’s ratty jeans and the unbuttoned shirt he wore over a fresh undershirt. Dean shrugged. There was no official dress code and he’d always be John Winchester’s kid first and foremost, and didn’t that just fucking _suck_.

No, not even that could drag him down today.

“What, no Gabe?” Dean asked, taking a seat.

“Thought we could use some brother time,” said Sam. A waiter appeared as from nowhere and took Dean’s order for a Michelob with a distasteful frown. “You know I’m paying, right?”

“Why would you do a stupid thing like that?” Dean frowned. “You know how much I’m making this year.”

“I know how much you’ve made every year, which is why it worries me so damn much that you’re always so broke,” Sam laughed but there was nothing joking to his expression, eyes keen. It wasn’t the first time Sam had insinuated about Dean’s fiscal situation. _Damn it, Sam, let it go for another week and you’ll never notice funds missing again._ “You know you’re not dad, right? You don’t have to play like him and you sure don’t have to make the same mistakes he made.” It wasn’t the first time that Sam had assumed that the problem was that Dean shared John’s vices and Dean always seethed at the accusation but he couldn’t answer it. If he did, he’d have to explain, and if he explained, Sam would grow even more disillusioned with John, _and_ Sam would insist on paying. _Would have insisted on paying. There’s nothing left to pay. I don’t need Sam’s help – didn’t need Sam’s help for this. He doesn’t need to know how bad it really was – he_ never _needs to know how bad it really was. Let him think that dad’s mistakes died with dad. Let him think whatever he wants about me_. _I know the truth, that’s good enough._

“Been here two minutes and you’re already picking a fight? Might be a new record,” said Dean, grateful that the waiter came promptly with his beer and he could hide his disgruntled look by taking a sip. “Then you’ll be happy to know I was thinking of moving after this season.”

“You’re not coming back to San Francisco?” Sam’s annoyance fell away and every negative thought Dean had harbored about his brother vanished in at the hang-dog look on Sammy’s face as he considered the prospect of Dean not staying with him any longer.

“Nothing’s set but I was thinking of spending the winter in Atlanta,” Dean explained, making a show of drinking his beer while he carefully eyed Sam over the lip of the bottle. Sam quirked his head, eyes narrowed with consideration, and broke into a broad grin.

“This is about whoever you were texting when we got dinner last night, isn’t it,” he said sagely. “The same person Gabe caught you smiling over when we met up last month in LA? The same one you stayed with during the All Star game? You’ve been holding out on me all season, but it’s time to spill the beans – what’s his name?”

Spluttering, Dean spat bad beer over his hand and the bottle. “ _What_?”

“Come on Dean, you think I didn’t know?” Sam laughed. “I caught you making out with the ball boy when you were 14!”

“That was a _girl_ , you idiot!” Her name had been Hurley and damn had Dean dug how her uniform accented how tall and slim and flat-chested she was, hair cut in an adorable pixie cut. His preference for boyish girls should have clued him in to his orientation; instead it had taken him another five years to figure out the truth.

“Really?” Sam spluttered.

“Yes, _really_ , I can show you her Facebook page if you want,” he huffed.

“And yet you’re denying nothing,” Sam said smugly. Dean grimaced and tried to hide behind his bottle. Judging by the gleam in Sam’s eye and his growing grin, Dean wasn’t succeeding.

“Would you shut it, you bitch? Someone might hear you,” muttered Dean, chugging the rest of his drink.

He usually stopped himself after one but he might make an exception if the conversation continued in the direction he feared it was going.

_Eh, what’s wrong with getting tipsy? I deserve to celebrate a little, especially if Sammy’s paying. He can afford to get me a second beer._

“So who is it?” asked Sam, leaning close and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “When do I get to meet him? You know your invitation to the wedding includes a Plus One, right?”

“Can’t do that,” Dean shook his head. “If anyone found out I’d be toast. No team in the league will sign a gay has-been.” _Would that be so bad?_ _It doesn’t matter. I can’t out Jimmy._

“Dean, you’re going to be 38 before next season starts, and you’ve been flirting with the Mendoza line for a month and a half,” said Sam. “Not to put you down...but do you really think you’ll be playing next season regardless?”

“A guy can hope,” Dean replied, surprised by how much Sam’s words stung. “Julio Franco played ‘til he was 49.” He’d have thought, with how often he castigated himself, he’d let go any hope of having a chance to play for another season.

“He was a [DH](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Designated_hitter).” Sam rolled his eyes. “David Ross and AJ Pierzynski are the oldest catchers in the game. They’ve not got a year on you.”

“Hate that asshole,” Dean murmured darkly. “You don’t know I won’t be the next Carlton Fisk...”

Sam snorted. “You’re a good player Dean but you’ve _never_ been a Fisk; even dad wasn’t Fisk. You’ve already played longer than dad managed to, you should be proud of that.”

_Christ, that’s true, dad stopped playing in the Majors at 36, switched to ruining his liver as quickly as he could manage, attaching himself to any team that’d keep him around, and pretending to be my coach._

“I might play next season,” said Dean, defiant, even as his hip gave a pointed and ill-timed twinge. _Fucking uncomfortable prissy-ass bar stools..._ “I mean, come on Sammy, what would I do instead?”

For the first time in his life, that question resounded in his head and an answer came to the front. Despite his moodiness, Dean no longer doubted that Cas liked and believed in him. Of late, Cas had been working with Lafitte more in the bullpen, much to Dean’s annoyance, but despite that Cas had sought out Dean’s input, had Lafitte talk to Dean about strategies, and clearly wanted to work with Dean on the diamond. Going forward, maybe that camaraderie could be leveraged in a way that kept Dean employed off the field? Even if it couldn’t, Dean might be able to get a job with the Braves organization, which would put him close to Jimmy – assuming Jimmy wanted to continue whatever it was they were doing past this season. _Dating, Dean, the word you’re looking for is dating._ It didn’t seem impossible. Dean couldn’t speak for either twin, but he knew that given the chance he’d be happy to keep working with Cas and he’d be happy to keep seeing Jimmy. He’d be happy to have them both in his life.

“That,” Sammy’s amused voice cut through Dean’s reflection. “Whatever you just thought of? That’s what you’d do. Knowing you, it’s still in baseball, right?” Dean nodded. “You think being out of the closet will mess that up?”

“Remember what happened to[Burke](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glenn_Burke)?” countered Dean.

“Dean, that was _thirty years ago_ ,” Sam gave him a petulant look. “Things are different now.”

“Right, that’s why there’s [exactly one out player](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Denson) in the entire league,” Dean rolled his eyes. “And he’s young enough to be my kid – it might yet screw up his career, and kudos to him for taking the chance anyway.”

_If I came out – if more of us older folks came out – wouldn’t it help a young guy like that?_

_Fuck, no, just stop, life got easier tonight, no reason to complicate it again by becoming MLB’s gay poster child._

“You know, Gabe and my engagement isn’t exactly a secret,” said Sam, his tone growing positively bitchy. “And get this – _no one gives a shit_. But if your masculinity can’t handle everyone knowing you like dick, that’s your problem. If your masculinity can’t handle your own damn brother knowing who your boyfriend is...”

“I call bullshit,” Dean snapped. Catching the waiter’s eye, he gestured with his empty bottle, hoping the message was clear that he wanted another. “You expect me to out someone you’ve never even met?” _Except Sam has met Jimmy. Sam’s his agent. Would Sam treat him differently if he knew? I can’t risk Jimmy’s career to satisfy Sam’s curiosity._

“Wait, it’s another _player_?” That, at least, brought Sam up short. The waiter returned with Dean’s second drink, effectively covering the awkward pause as Sam’s jaw worked and his brow furrowed as he considered how to reply. Dean murmured thanks, the waiter left them alone, the room was filled with the sounds of clinking glasses and muffled conversation, and Dean sipped at his drink and waited for Sam to continue. Finally, Sam’s expression relaxed and he asked calmly, “Is it Castiel Novak?”

Dean choked on a mouthful of beer.

“Woah, woah, breathe.” Sam leapt to his feet, circled the table and slapped Dean on the back as he fizzy liquid burned at Dean’s throat. Carbonation did _not_ belong in his lungs.

“No,” Dean croaked.

“Because there were always weird rumors about him and his brother…they were close, very close,” Sam continued as he rubbed up and down Dean’s back. “And how they’ve both acted since hasn’t convinced anyone to think differently. Have you watched the footage of either Novak answering questions about the other? Their facial expressions are straight out of daytime soap operas.” Sam paused and added thoughtfully, “Gabe ships it.”

“What the hell does _that_ mean?” asked Dean, voice rough. _Maybe no more beer tonight, apparently I can’t drink and have this conversation without making a fucking mess_. His hand shaking a little, he grabbed a napkin to wipe up the mess he’d made.

“Gabe thinks they were in a relationship with each other,” Sam clarified.

 _Jimmy’s recent break up, all the things he said about Cas, fuck that would be hot, no, no, that’d be wrong, like if I were in a relationship with Sam, that’s disgusting, that’s…_ Sam’s hand felt damn good trailing up and down his back; Dean was no longer hacking but Sam hadn’t stopped, and Dean hadn’t suggested he stop. _…don’t lie to yourself, Winchester, it’s crossed your mind a time or two…if Sammy hadn’t been four years younger? If he’d been a twin? Is it really incest if there’s no danger of having some busted genetic freak of a kid?_

_How fucking hot would it be to watch Jimmy suck Cas off?_

Shuddering, Dean shook Sam’s hand off; his brother gave his shoulder one final pat before returning to his seat. “ ‘s not Cas,” muttered Dean. He risked a glance up at Sam’s face; Sam was pensive, patient, maybe a little worried. Dean sighed. “Close but no cigar.”

“Jimmy,” Sam breathed. “You’re such a jerk, Dean. Why’d you lie and say I don’t know the guy? He’s my client for fuck’s sake. He got way more friendly a couple months ago, I didn’t think anything of it, but…” He shook his head, shaggy hair swaying about his face. “Well, at least that makes the wedding easier. He’s one of mine so I don’t need to justify inviting him.”

“That’s it? That’s your biggest concern?”

 _At least he’s not asking about the money any longer_. 

“What, you’d rather I be upset? I could shout if you want, make a scene, I bet we could get the media involved if you really want.” Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m not dad, Dean, I don’t give a shit if you’re gay.”

_Bet he’d give a shit if I hooked up with both of them._

“Say it a little louder,” grumbled Dean.

“How’re things going?” Sam said, ignoring Dean. “Must be pretty good if you’re thinking about moving to Atlanta.”

“Well, he’s still talking to me, I’m taking that as a good sign,” said Dean, staring at the bustle of people moving about the brightly-lit bar. “Of course, we’ve seen each other like four times in the past three months so I figure that’s playing in my favor.”

“Dean—”

“Seriously, I like him a lot,” Dean hurried on quietly. Sam broke into a warm smile. “I’ve been thinking…I’ve been thinking a lot of things, honestly…I dunno, it just feels like maybe things aren’t shit for once? And that’s fucked, ‘cause every time I’ve thought that before…” He shrugged. “I’m glad you’re happy, Sammy.”

“Stop calling me that, jerk,” said Sam, laughter thick in his voice. “I’m fricken 33.”

“I could call you ‘Coleman’ instead,” joked Dean.

“Ugh, no, I’m not taking Gabe’s name.”

“Oh ho, so I should call him Winchester?”

“Neither of us is changing our names!”

“Coleman it is,” said Dean with a grin. Sam threw a straw wrapper at him, Dean dodged and it hit a passing woman who started, took in their appearance and instead started flirting despite both Sam and Dean’s attempts to deter her. A few minutes later her friend joined them, and – to Dean’s amazement, given how far they were from Washington – she _recognized_ him. The evening devolved into an autograph session over the strenuous objection of Sam, Dean and the restaurant staff. Though Dean maintained the appearance of being disgruntled throughout, as he headed back to his hotel he couldn’t deny how good he felt. The debt was paid, he had honest-to-God fans, Sam was getting married, Sam knew about Jimmy and it hadn’t changed a thing, and when he’d checked his phone he’d had a string of texts from Jimmy that promised Dean a pleasant phone call when he got back to his hotel room.

Life, for once, was pretty damn good.

* * *

Dean got the first question about his relationship status before his next home start with Castiel on August 5th. Dean was tired and achy and grumpy. West coast trips were always exhausting and a mild injury to Henriksen meant that Dean played two of three games against the Diamondbacks in Arizona. The same smarmy, grinning young woman who’d pestered Cas about having Dean as his catcher gave Dean a predatory smile as she asked him about the “rumors that he was involved in a relationship with another person involved in Major League Baseball?” She didn’t ask outright him if he was in a relationship _with a man_ but there were so few women involved in baseball, there was no doubt what conclusion everyone would draw if the question and answer were aired or published. Dean denied everything, of course, but the mere existence of the question worrisome. Someone must have overheard at the bar. There was no other possible explanation.

By game start Dean had psyched himself out about it. He played terribly, both behind the plate and at the plate. After two innings, Castiel chewed him out; after four, Singer chewed him out; and after six, with Castiel on track to throw a[ complete game victory](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Complete_game), Turner pulled Dean and put in fucking Andrew Gallagher, brought up days before to be a third catcher on the bench since Henriksen and Dean were both hurting. Cas was angry enough to spit nails and the entire team picked up on the vibe. On some days, that would have led to better play but they were fucking jinxed that night. The only reason they held out and won was that Gallagher rocked his debut, hitting two homers in three at bats and driving in five runs single-handedly. The crowd went berserk and he was an instant fan-favorite. Watching Castiel grit his teeth and say nice things about Gallagher in the post-game interviews was actually painful, but Dean could hardly dwell on it since he got asked two more times whether he was seeing someone, four times how he could explain his shit play for the evening and once if he was nursing an injury. At least Cas still worked out the win. With only 50 games left in the season – less than a third to go – the Nationals were neck-and-neck with the Braves for the lead in the National League East and Castiel was at 14 wins, tied for the most in the majors. The pennant race was one and the Nationals were in the thick of it.

Tensions ran high leading up to the first post-All Star Break games against the Braves. The Nationals schedule was heavily skewed for in-division games in the last two months of the season; from April to the end of July, they had only nine games against the Braves but they had twelve in the last seven weeks of play. Before the press started asking about Dean’s private life, he’d been excited about the prospect of the Braves coming to DC. Despite the continued friction between the brothers, Castiel had seemed less tetchy, Jimmy indicated that they were speaking again, and having the Braves around meant that Dean and Jimmy would have some time together. The vultures were swooping, though. The aches that had plagued Dean were slowly transitioning from minor annoyances to near-debilitating at times. The press was on his case before and after every game he played. The Nationals needed to win against the Braves to push ahead in the competition for the post-season. All of it combined to leave him an emotional wreck, the days crawling by.

Dean felt like the 11th would never come and, when it finally did, all he could think about was everything that might go wrong.

_What if the plane crashes? What if the cabin depressurizes?_

Dean and Castiel had done some work that morning to prepare for Castiel’s start the next day but they’d cut out early.

_What if those fucking mask things drop down? What if the crappy food gives Jimmy food poisoning?_

At first Dean had thought to spend the morning hanging out at home, but when he’d returned he’d found Jo busily engaged, two passionate female voices easily audible through the front door.

_What if some other passenger has Ebola? What if the pilot decides to dive-bomb the Potomac?_

To escape, he returned to the stadium to review footage of Castiel pitching, to review information on all the players on the latest roster provided by the Braves, and to see what he could do with Gallagher should the young man have to catch for Castiel again.

_What if there’s a bomb in the luggage? What if something happens to the engine mid-flight?_

Gallagher was a disaster behind the plate no matter how well he hit, but surely there must be _something_ that could be done to render him less of a hazard to those attempting to work with him.

_What if the landing gear jams? What if there’s a fire in the cabin?_

Dean’s eyes were blurred, his concentration poor, and in frustration he reloaded the clip he’d been reviewing for the third time and tried to focus on it well enough to come up with constructive feedback.

 _Fucking anxiety_.

_Jimmy (3:21 PM): You can stop panicking we’re at Dulles._

_Dean (3:23 PM): How do you always know exactly the right thing to say?_

_Jimmy (3:24 PM): I don’t you’re easy to predict. Why do you think pitchers have your number?_

_Dean (3:24 PM): Ha ha ha thought I was dating a catcher turns out he’s a comedian._

_Jimmy (3:26 PM): So that’s definitely a thing?_

_Jimmy (3:27 PM): We’re dating?_

_Dean (3:29 PM): I sure as shit hope so. Not risking my career for the nonexistent sex._

_Jimmy (3:30 PM): Gee I thought all the moaning I heard over the phone the other day sounded a hell of a lot like existent sex. But if you’ve got complaints..._

_Dean (3:33 PM): We need to be careful about dinner tonight which sucks. Our reservations are at 1789 but there’s this bitch from NBC who keeps asking if I’m seeing someone and there was a thing with Walker on fucking ESPN last week all about what team I play for and I don’t want to fuck your life up._

_Jimmy (3:35 PM): Why don’t we meet at the hotel we can talk and decide later if we want to get dinner._

_Dean (3:36 PM): Sure ok what hotel and when should I get there?_

_Jimmy (3:38 PM): Courtyard Washington Navy Yard 4:30_

* * *

Dean was punctual to the minute. The hotel was two blocks from Nationals Park but the traffic was light and parking was simple because there was no baseball game that night. In the lobby, there was no sign of the Braves players and Dean worried that he’d beaten them there and would have to risk exposing himself and Jimmy by hanging out in public to wait, but no sooner did he step into the sleek interior than he got a text from Jimmy with a room number. A few people shot Dean sidelong glances as he walked across the wide, tiled foyer towards the elevators – almost certainly spotters for the media. Despite the best efforts of the teams, the press always managed to find out where the teams were staying, but he pointedly ignored them and headed up to meet Jimmy. _My boyfriend_. The thought gave him pleasant butterflies the existence of which he’d never have admitted to anyone. For no reason he could put his finger on, his heart pounded with anticipation as he rode up to the 8 th floor. The building was sizeable and it took him a moment to gain his bearings, but soon enough he was knocking on the door of Room 834, more breathless than could be justified by the rapid, broad strides that had brought him down the nondescript hallway to the plain entryway.

The door flew open, hands latched onto his shoulders and pulled him in, the door slammed shut behind him, lips met his, and _fuck_ , Jimmy taking control and jerking him around was fricken hotter than hell. Jimmy kissed him like a fucking porn star, aggressive and urgent and so damn _awesome_. Caught up in the exquisite feeling, Dean wrapped an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and eagerly worked against Jimmy’s lip, lapped at his tongue, kissed back for all he was worth. Even this was more than they’d done previously; sure, they’d kissed before, but it had been hesitant and cautious, had always stopped before things got too hot. With Jimmy’s tongue tracing along Dean’s palette, with Jimmy’s saliva sweet in his mouth, with Jimmy’s fingers digging into his flesh so hard he thought it might bruise, how much Dean had craved this flared scorching through him like flame devouring dry tinder. His back hit the wall hard, Jimmy peppering him with quick kisses like he was starved for the taste of Dean, and Dean slipped his arm around Jimmy’s waist, traced the curve of his spine, urged him to press against Dean. A possessive growl rolled in the back of Jimmy’s throat; he nipped at Dean’s lips and lined their bodies up, sliding his hands down Dean’s arms and to his sides while maintaining his powerful grip.

“Jimmy…” Dean groaned, throwing his head back, breaking off the kiss so he could try to catch his breath and fight back the euphoria threatening to incinerate him. It’d been so long, _so fucking long_ , since anyone had touched him with so much desire and passion.

 _Has_ anyone _ever touched me like this?_

“Been thinking about this for days,” Jimmy breathed, each word huffed out between sucking kisses to Dean’s jaw line. “Ever since you…” he trailed off, nuzzling the collar of Dean’s shirt aside and biting at Dean’s clavicle so hard he gasped and went rigid, pain mingling with his pleasure powerfully, his hard cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. “Remember last week when I told you that you had to wait and you were fucking _sobbing_ into the phone and begging me to let you come, begging me to touch you as if I were in the damn room with you?” Licking gently at the abused spot on Dean’s chest, Jimmy finally reached Dean’s crotch. One hand dug into the thick back seam of Dean’s pants, thumb tracing the line of his crack; the other he pressed hard against Dean’s erection, palm rubbing along the length.

“Oh, fuck, Jimmy,” Dean panted, straining against Jimmy’s grip on him, desperate for more. “Please, fuck _please_ …”

“Yeah, just like that,” mouthed Jimmy against Dean’s neck, licking at a sensitive spot behind his ear. Dean felt dizzy at the competing sensations, the teased spot on his shoulder still throbbing pain, Jimmy’s grip so powerful against Dean’s long-neglected cock that it hurt even as he yearned for more. “Never understood how hot begging was ‘til you, Dean – that’s when I realized I didn’t want to wait any longer, wasn’t going to wait any longer – come on, tell me what you want, tell me what you need…”

“Jimmy,” Dean pleaded, unable to say which among the competing images in his head appealed to him most. He’d had so many fantasies about Jimmy he couldn’t possibly pick which one he’d get to have, knowing he might not get another for days or weeks or ever. He wanted all of them, wanted everything, wanted to lavish attention on Jimmy…

… _and Cas_ …

…wanted Jimmy…

… _and Cas_ …

…to lavish attention on him, wanted Jimmy…

… _and Cas_ …

…in every way that he could think of.

 _Oh, fuck_.

With a gasp, Dean thrust against Jimmy’s palm and came, climax hitting him like a blow to the head – wait, no, he’d actually hit his head, slamming it back against the door Jimmy pressed him against. Not realizing what had happened, or indifferent to it, Jimmy kept working at him, kept him pinned.

“You’re lucky you’re so hot,” Jimmy whispered. “Or else I’d stop and make you tell me, I’d—”

“Jimmy,” he managed.

“Yeah, Dean, yeah, seriously you’re fucking _gorgeous_ right now, you should see—”

“Stop,” croaked Dean. Startled, Jimmy drew back instantly. The loss of contact was an immense relief and absolutely awful and Dean whimpered as his legs gave out and he crumpled painfully to the floor, grunting when his weight fell on his knees.

“Dean…” Concerned, Jimmy leaned over him and laid a hand on his cheek to tilt his head up. Dean tried to make his eyes focus through the after-glow but it was difficult, he felt so good, so relaxed. “Wait, did you _come_?” Dean barely nodded, but it was enough. Jimmy’s eyes went wide as saucers, the ring of his blue irises nearly swallowed up by black. “You really want me that much?” Jimmy’s hands fumbled at his fly. Dean wanted to help but all he could do was stare, desperate for his first glimpse of Jimmy’s cock as Jimmy lowered the zipper, reached within his pants and pulled out his flushed length. Only a hard bite against his lip kept Dean from moaning; Jimmy gave himself a rough stroke and a low, broken noise escaped him. A bead of thin pre-come formed at the slit, inches from Dean’s face as he knelt on the floor. Unable to resist base temptation, Dean half-lunged, half-fell forward, wrapped his lips around the head of Jimmy’s cock and sucked hard. “Shit, Dean, _shit,_ that’s…” A salty, tangy taste diffused through Dean’s mouth and he lapped at Jimmy’s slit, trying to tease free more as Jimmy groaned and his hand came to rest on Dean’s head as his other played and toyed with his foreskin. Letting his eyes slip shut, Dean worked over the head, Jimmy’s fingers brushing his cheeks as he made soft, encouraging noises. Abruptly, Jimmy’s grip locked around the back of Dean’s head and he sank himself inside Dean until his cock bumped the back of Dean’s throat. Eyes watering, Dean fought against his gag reflex and was relieved when Jimmy drew back out, eased back in.

“This okay, Dean?” Jimmy’s voice had dropped a fucking _octave_ from how he usually sounded. Dean hummed his approval. A burst of early release washed over Dean’s tongue and he enthusiastically swallowed down every drop. Jimmy’s groaning shattered around a gasp and he gave up trying to touch himself, instead cradling Dean’s cheek in a tender contrast to his harsh hold on Dean’s head. Thrusting desperately into the wet heat of Dean’s mouth, his mouth flooding with saliva and watery pre-come, Jimmy fucking fell apart nearly as quickly as Dean had. Thick, bitter come spurted onto Dean’s tongue, down his throat, leaked out the corners of Dean’s mouth as Jimmy continued to thrust weakly through his orgasm. With a shudder and a sigh, Jimmy pulled free from Dean’s mouth; Dean opened his eyes to see Jimmy sinking to his knees before Dean. Arms enfolded him, a hot tongue licked at the spit and come coating Dean’s chin, and Jimmy rubbed their bodies together as if he was desperate for the contact.

“You’re perfect,” Jimmy whispered in his ear, “God, you’re amazing. I’m sorry I made you wait so long, made us both wait so long.” A hand slipped under Dean’s shirt, skin against skin glorious on his overheated flesh. “I never thought I’d...” Jimmy shook his head, swallowing whatever he’d been about to say. “I’m glad I met you, so fucking happy.”

“Hey, Jimmy,” mumbled Dean. Thoughts were hard to come by; Dean was dizzy on the afterglow of his orgasm and light-headed due to the challenges of breathing while Jimmy had fucked his face. He chuckled at nothing and Jimmy nuzzled his cheek affectionately. “Welcome to Washington. We’re gonna kick your ass tomorrow, you know.” Jimmy laughed, a low sound that bubbled from his chest to grow and grow until they were both draped over each other and the room rang with peals of joy. It was a long time before they managed to stop; each time one of them started to fall quiet, the other would find something new to keep the laughter going and they were lost again. It felt good, as good as coming had, as good as sucking his boyfriend down had. In that room, in that moment, there was no media, no game pressure, nothing to distract them from each other, no one else to think about.

_Except Cas._

_I’m going to have to talk to him about that sometime._

The thought finally killed the lingering glow of humor. Jimmy fell quiet and slumped against him, chest still fluttering with silent giggles.

“What time are the reservations for?” asked Jimmy.

“Eight,” said Dean, “but going is a shit idea. If anyone sees us…” Dean shrugged and let the sentence hang. He didn’t need to explain what would happen if they were outed.

“Yeah?”

“Huh?”

“What if someone sees us together?” Jimmy said.

Ok, maybe Dean _did_ need to explain. First Sam, now Jimmy; what was it with the people around him not understanding the consequences of being openly gay in professional sports? “We’ll be fucked,” Dean supplied. “Not in the fun way.” His knee twinged agony in a white-hot line up his thigh and he shifted seeking a more comfortable position. A burning sensation spread through his feet and calves, pins and needles set in and he bit back a curse.

“Are you alright?” Jimmy drew away, concerned. Nodding, Dean tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t support him; he got a foot under him and pitched forward. Pain lanced from his toes to his lower back and despite himself he groaned. “Dean!” Catching him, Jimmy grunted under Dean’s weight and Dean struggled to carry enough of his weight that he wouldn’t put untoward pressure on the slighter man.

“I’m good,” Dean lied, struggling to keep his tension and discomfort from his face. Jimmy knew he was hurting, but not how badly. Pulling back, Dean settled back on his heels and was greeted by a comically skeptical look on Jimmy’s face: brows raised up to his fucking hair line, lips pursed, eyes judging. “It’s no big deal. Leg’s asleep.”

“Right,” Jimmy said firmly. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re getting you on your feet and onto my bed and I’m going to give you a massage, see if we can’t do something about those aches of yours. That done, I’m going to put on a damn suit, and so are you, and we’re going to get a fricken delicious dinner, and if anyone sees then _fuck ‘em_ cause you better believe they’re not having as nice an evening as we are. And after, we’re coming back here, and I’m unwrapping you like the fricken gift you are and we’re finishing the conversation that your premature ejaculation interrupted.” Dean blinked at him uncertainly. “You’re going to tell me _exactly_ what you were begging for, in detail, and I’m going to consider carefully what I want to do with that information before I decide on and execute a game plan.”

Protests rose to Dean’s lips, offended that Jimmy thought he needed help to stand, unsure if he should resist Jimmy’s appealingly possessive talk, brimming with objections to the risks of exposure, the dangers of being found out as a couple. With effort, he held every word back and found that, when he shut his anxieties up and repressed the instincts that advised him towards caution, there was no part of that plan that didn’t appeal to him.

The evening was…well, Dean was loathe to call anything in his life perfect but it was pretty damn close. Jimmy didn’t tease Dean for needing help getting into bed and the massage was even more glorious than the ones that Jo gave as part of Dean’s personal training routine. Over an hour, Jimmy massaged Dean from head to toe, smoothing the way with hotel body lotion, leaving Dean so replete and supple that he was practically melting into the bedding. When he’d reduced Dean to a limp, warm, satisfied ball of easy happiness, Jimmy rolled him onto his side and lay down with his bare chest – Dean had no clue when he’d stripped – pressed to Dean’s back. There was a spurt of lotion and a slick hand wrapped around Dean’s cock, a smooth dick thrust into the tight space between Dean’s thighs, and Dean whimpered and moaned and basked in the glorious knowledge that Jimmy didn’t expect anything from him beyond that he relax and enjoy how good he felt and how good he could make Jimmy feel. He’d never felt so taken care of before. A small part of him balked at the feeling but it was impossible to credit that he was being selfish when Jimmy trembled against him and moaned in his ear and came between his legs. Dean followed moments later, Jimmy catching the release in his hand to keep from soiling the blankets. Completely sated, Dean rolled to face Jimmy and with a lidded gaze he tried to put everything he felt into his expression as he met Jimmy’s smiling, bright-eyed face.

Naked, Jimmy was beautiful: lean yet muscular, every line of his body strong and defined, his hip bones formed so perfectly that they cast damn shadows over the flesh beneath.

“It’s time to get ready,” said Jimmy, coloring under Dean’s scrutiny as if he wasn’t fricken perfection incarnate. A small voice in Dean’s head urged him to tell Jimmy exactly how gorgeous he was. Instead, he contented himself with watching Jimmy go to his closet and get dressed for the evening, letting all his appreciation show on his face.

Once Jimmy was dressed, Dean was faced with the amazing prospect that Jimmy in a formal jacket, ironed dress pants, a button-down shirt and a tie might be _even more_ spectacular than Jimmy naked. _No, I could never pick, he’s sinful either way._ Looking at Jimmy, cheeks fresh shaved and smooth, dark hair pulled back into a classy ponytail, Dean could hardly believe the young man was genuinely interested in him. For his age, Dean supposed he looked alright but even in his prime his stomach and abs had never done that whole “six pack” shit and now he had a distinct ring of paunch. He’d never been and never would be chiseled. Granted, his legs and ass were fucking amazing, an inevitable side effect of being a catcher. Maybe that was what Jimmy liked about him? Dean wasn’t sure, but even his mediocre self-image couldn’t argue with the glazed look that came over Jimmy’s face when Dean hurried back to the car after quickly changing at Jo’s. He was only wearing slacks, a dark button down shirt and a plain tie, but as he slid into the driver’s seat Jimmy looked like he’d decided exactly what he wanted for dinner and it definitely wasn’t on the menu at the restaurant they were headed to. Jimmy didn’t suggest they cancel, instead making small talk that distracted Dean from his concerns that they might get caught.

Dinner was delicious. The atmosphere at the restaurant was low-key despite the fancy ingredients, top-notch wine list and excellent food. The other patrons ignored Jimmy and Dean as completely as Jimmy and Dean ignored them. It was the most date-like date Dean had ever been on. He suspected the same might be true of Jimmy given how abashed he kept acting over the simplest shit, like when Dean offered his fork for Jimmy to taste from or when the wait staff casually assumed they were a couple. Jimmy’s flushes helped Dean feel less ridiculous about his own, the wine helped relax them, and conversation flowed easily as it always did when they were together. Near the end of the meal, Jimmy regaled Dean with a story about the first time he met Singer, when he’d gushed about what an idol of his and Cas’ Singer had been. As he spoke, Jimmy’s dark eyes sparkled in the dimly lit dining room and his features were animated with happiness, his tone guileless, his body language open and trusting. Watching him, struggling to remain attentive in the face of how absurdly happy he felt when he saw that Jimmy was happy, Dean wondered if the hot, tender feeling growing in his chest was love. If it wasn’t, he suspected it was very like. Regardless of what name belonged to that swelling emotion, by the time Jimmy had concluded with a hilarious imitation of Singer saying what an idiot Jimmy was, Dean was sure that no matter what he named the feeling, he wanted to feel it more, wanted it to envelop him, wanted to share it with Jimmy as long as he could – not just for the night, or the series, or the season. For as long as that warmth lingered and grew, Dean wanted to indulge it; for as long as he felt that way, and _fuck_ did he hope that it would be a long time. Dean wanted Jimmy in his life.

 _When I talk to him about the Cas thing, it’ll all change_.

 _It’ll wait. It’ll keep. Maybe we’ll talk about it next time_.

Dean didn’t bother to examine if “next time” meant their next date, the next time they spoke, or the next time their teams played against each other, and he pushed the whole thing from his mind. There was no need to focus on that when he had a fucking _lifetime_ of awesome stories about Bobby Singer that he could share over port and dessert.

Not that Dean was looking at the clock, but by his best guess it took Jimmy all of ten minutes to reduce Dean to a begging, weeping, achingly hard lump of pure, helpless desire tied to the hotel bed. The night and early morning blurred together but he was sure that Jimmy got off at least twice before he finally took pity on Dean and sucked Dean’s cock like it was his fucking job, drinking down every drop of release when Dean finally came with a howl. They didn’t bother cleaning up after. Skin gross with sweat and spit and drying come, they held each other close, pulled the blanket over both their cooling bodies and fell asleep.

Maybe it wasn’t perfect but it was the best date, the best sex, the best night that Dean had ever had.

The glorious afterglow lasted until the next morning when Dean was awoken by his phone vibrating and beeping an hour before his alarm was set for. Fumbling for it, he found he’d gotten an MMS from Jo: a grainy photograph of the sports section of the morning edition _the Washington Times_ , an image of himself and Jimmy laughing over dinner topped by  the headline _Lose-chester Finally Gets a Hit_.


	11. Chapter 11

“What were you two _thinking_?” Milton had a gift for projecting power and authority. Instead of shouting, she spoke softly, bitingly, and even though both Castiel and Dean had inches on her she held their gazes with her own. Her hand rested on a copy of _the Washington Times_ , two fingers tapping idly above Dean’s and Jimmy’s heads. Castiel scowled. After a lifetime of being mistaken for his brother, he should be used to it. Normally, it didn’t bother him. This time, he was ready to fucking spit nails. Even the grainy, shit picture from the dim restaurant couldn’t obscure how fantastic both men looked. Dean was inadvertently facing the camera in the shot, his happy ease obvious. Jealousy burned fire and ice through Castiel’s veins.

“Wrong brother,” Castiel snapped. He’d have given a great deal to be in Jimmy’s place the previous night; he’d have given even more to have made a third at that table. On her desk, Milton’s phone vibrated.

“ _That’s not better_ ,” Milton snarled. “It would have been bad enough if my ace and his catcher were heading off to a fancy restaurant to snag a meal together, but at least that I could have played off as, like, male bonding or some shit. But Dean – what – you’re out on a date with _Jimmy Novak_? How the hell did you two even meet?” Dean started to answer but she cut him off. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Is this what it looks like?”

“My personal life is none of your business,” Dean said, scowling, but Castiel noticed more how Dean’s shoulders hunched defensively, how he looked down and away as Milton continued her steely, piercing stare.

“So, _yes_.”

“But—”

“Save it, Winchester – this isn’t the fucking military and we don’t have a ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ policy, we have a ‘the first player who comes out as gay is going to bring a shit storm of media down on his club the likes of which the MLB hasn’t seen since fucking [Brian McNamee](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_McNamee) gave [HGH ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Growth_hormone)to Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte’ policy _,_ ” she said acidly. “We don’t have time for this shit right now. A veteran like you _knows_ that. Everyone knows you’re light in the loafers, but couldn’t you keep it in private for three more damn months? No one gives a damn what you do in the winter but we’ve got a pennant race to worry about, we don’t need a circus!” The phone vibrated again, but she ignored it.

“Wait, _that’s_ the part that bothers you?” Dean asked, face slack with incredulity.

“What, you think anyone gives a damn that you’re gay? It’s 2016, not 1985, and this is Washington DC, not…I don’t know, Oklahoma or something,” Milton rolled her eyes. “If you really want to come out of the closet that’s a conversation we could have, but of course I’d have to get the owners involved, and the PR department, and probably the fricken commissioner. Which is to say, it’d be a nightmare – a nightmare that _we don’t have time for right now_. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to keep it in your pants for the rest of the season. No more dates, no more sharing hotel rooms – _yes I know about the damn hotel rooms, Winchester_ – no more clandestine meetings around the stadium, no more phone calls where someone can overhear, no more talking to your brother about it in fricken _public_.”

“How did you—”

“Can it! As far as you’re concerned, I know _everything_ , understand? Oh, and absolute _no_ talking to the media. The only words I want out of your mouth if a reporter talks to you are _no comment_ unless one of us tells you otherwise.” Her tone could have frozen lava. “New guiding philosophy for your life, Winchester: pretend I’m the angel on your shoulder if you have to – if you wouldn’t want me to see you do something then _don’t fucking do it_.”

“You can’t—” Castiel couldn’t decide if Dean sounded petulant or disappointed and he looked deflated and cowed in a way that Castiel hated.

“Yes I can,” she interrupted, tone implacable. “I’m your general manager – I’m _God_ , Winchester, and you’ll kneel before the Lord or you’ll kneel in the minor leagues.”

“Milton, you can’t actually make them stop, our contracts stipulate that—”

_Why am I defending him? Why am I putting myself out for him? I’m angry at him, he’s out with Jimmy, he doesn’t want me. Neither of them want me._

“Novak, are you under the impression that this has something to do with you?” she interrupted, turning to him, eyes catching the light and flashing a steely gray. “I only called you here because I thought that was you in the picture. Since it’s not – what are you even doing here?”

 _But he looks so_ happy _in that picture. I wonder how Jimmy looks? Are they both that happy?_

 “You didn’t tell me to leave,” said Castiel, meeting her strength with his own. Dean had screwed up but he didn’t deserve this treatment.

_It’s not fair._

“Now I am,” she grabbed her phone as it shook and rattled against the desk. “Both of you get out of here, I’ve got to clean this mess up.” Her finger flicked over the screen. “Yeah, Freeley? Sure, that sounds good – we need to get [Coppolella ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Coppolella)on the phone. That’s not our Novak, it’s his, and—” She cut off as she realized neither Castiel or Dean had moved. “What part of _get the fuck out of my office_ wasn’t clear?” Dean flushed red and bolted for the door; Castiel followed more calmly. The door slammed shut behind them, dulling Milton’s voice to an undecipherable muffle as she resumed speaking rapidly to her caller.

The silence in the hallway was oppressive. The staff offices were, inconveniently, on the opposite end of the ballpark complex from the players’ locker rooms and it was early enough in the morning that if anyone else was around they weren’t moving about the halls. Dean walked a few steps ahead of Castiel, his back rigid, his steps stiff.

“Thank you,” Dean said abruptly, words echoing. “For speaking up for me, I mean, I appreciate it.”

“How you choose to spend your personal time is none of my business,” said Castiel. The lie was hollow in his ears, the need to sound uninvested, dispassionate, and unhurt made him sound cruel. The tension in Dean’s back tightened noticeably. “Even if you spend it with my brother. However, I will not have it influence the game. If you are not going to play your best, I don’t need you.”

_Wow, really? That’s not even a little true. I should…_

“I understand,” said Dean.

The silence between them grew even more strained.

_Dammit, Novak, say you’re sorry for being such an ass to him._

_You_ are _, aren’t you?_

Castiel couldn’t get the words out. Instead, all he said was, “I’d like to throw a morning warm up before our meeting with Singer.”

“That’s fine.”

“There’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to win tonight’s game.”

Dean stopped short so suddenly that Castiel walked by him. Glancing back, Castiel caught Dean’s eyes. Bright green watched him, a tracery of crow’s feet scrunched up beside each eye as Dean’s gaze narrowed. Uncertain what the issue was, Castiel stopped and quirked his head, a silent request for Dean to explain himself. All Dean did was shake his head. “Yeah, sure,” he said, sounding more relaxed than he had all morning. Broad strides took Dean past Castiel, and he blinked at the catcher’s back, at a loss what he in his words had shifted the dynamic between them so profoundly and suddenly.

 _There’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to win tonight’s game._ Had there been something to how Castiel had said it? Some subtlety he hadn’t intended? Had some hint of how much he thought he _should_ apologize been evident in his tone?

“You comin’?” called Dean over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” said Castiel warmly, a smile painting his lips. _Maybe he’s like Jimmy – maybe he’s able pick up what I mean, even when I’m not able to say it. That would be nice…_ “Yeah. Let’s do this!”

* * *

When they were working in the bullpen, putting aside thoughts of Jimmy and Dean on a date was easy, but when Castiel was in meetings reviewing information he already knew there were no distractions and Castiel’s thoughts lingered annoyingly on the photograph from the paper. Jimmy looked so relaxed – _he looks so relaxed without me_ – and Dean looked _actually_ calm, rather than the assumed calm he wore like a second skin when he was working behind the plate. Castiel and Jimmy had never been able to go on an actual date, had never been able to hold hands, had never dared enjoy each other’s company in public. The photograph was a glimpse of everything they’d been denied as a couple and it was also a tantalizing glimpse of how Dean behaved when he was comfortable – _when I’m not being a shallow, jealous jerk to him_. The pitchers and catchers sat in a darkened room, watching video while Turner and Singer discussed the game plan for the next three days, and Castiel distractedly watched Dean’s profile. Though Dean was attentive, his expression was pinched and from time to time he shifted in his chair. Every time Dean fidgeted he grimaced and Castiel winced, wondering how much pain Dean was in, how severe his injuries actually were.

_How badly were they exacerbated by his extracurricular activities?_

His anger – _no_ – his jealousy flared, and he fought to keep an annoyed frown from his face.

 _Jimmy wouldn’t do anything to hurt Dean. I have to let this go_.

Taking a deep breath, he tore his gaze from Dean’s face. As he’d said to Dean earlier, it was none of Castiel’s business who Dean dated, even if it was Jimmy. Being odd man out sucked, but it was part of life, and he’d suck it up like an adult – suck it up as if he’d thrown the game of his life only to have the bullpen blow a lead – and move on.

There were at least a dozen reporters gathered around Dean’s locker when the pitchers and catchers headed there to change after the meeting. The instant Dean stepped into the room they swarmed him like locusts, a jumbled cacophony of questions filling the air as they talked over each other.

“—James Novak—”

“No comment,” Dean said flatly.

“How long have you—?”

“No comment.”

“—does the team—”

“No comment.”

“—your father think—”

“No comment.” Dean sounded increasingly flustered. He couldn’t navigate through the scrum to access his locker and they had him surrounded, preventing him from escaping back into the hallway.

“—impact this will have on your—”

“No comment.” Desperation tinged Dean’s voice.

“—could be the first in—”

“No com—”

“ _Leave him alone,_ ” roared Castiel, unable to take it any longer. All eyes turned towards him, cold, smiles predatory, flash bulbs going off, camera LEDs blinking.

“And Mr. Novak—”

“—catcher dating your brother—”

“Did you know—”

“All of you _get the fuck out of our locker room_ ,” he interrupted, his voice loud enough to echo off the walls. Every other player on the team was staring at him, expressions ranging from Gordon’s disgusted condemnation to Dean’s pale-faced gratitude. _At least he doesn’t hate me._ “You sons of bitches have a right to our public lives, but our private lives are just that _– our own fucking private business_ – and you have no right to mine, my brother’s, or Dean’s. We have a game to prepare for. If you have questions about the game, ask them. Otherwise, leave.” He was breathing hard by the time he finished. All his media training was out the fucking window, all the lessons that said not to get upset, not to show real emotion, not to let reporters see that they were people instead of amenable talking heads.

“I’ll talk, if you want,” Gordon interjected with a smug smile.

“Why don’t you shove it, Walker?” suggested Milligan with deceptive calm. The cameras turned to follow the exchange. Judging by the grins on the faces of the reporters, they were getting the kind of footage they had dreamed of _._ “Novak is right, what my brother does when he’s not at the stadium has no bearing on anything and they have no right to ask about it, nor do any of us have an opinion on it that is worth a damn thing.”

“I have a question about the tonight’s game,” said a meek young man with a notebook. “It’s for Corbett...”

“Over here,” called the second baseman, out of sight down another row. As if the spell was broken, the press split up to speak to different players around the room. Quiet conversations filled the air. Two came over to speak to Castiel about his start, but mercifully none stayed around Dean. _Probably all waiting for a chance to speak with him one-on-one and get the scoop. I’m sticking to his side like glue until this is over. Wait, no I can’t, it’s not my place..._ Between answering questions about his expectations for his start and deflecting inept attempts to plumb his feelings about Dean’s date, Castiel overheard bits and pieces of the other interviews going on around the room. Most, miraculously, appeared to be on topic, but he could hear Gordon’s deep rumble discussing that it was _unnatural_ and _not safe in the showers_ and similar bull that made Castiel want to hit him. After a few minutes, the door to the locker room opened and Turner came in.

“Time’s up,” he said brusquely. “Milton’s got a press conference set up for those who are interested. The rest of you, I don’t care where you go but you can’t stay here. We’ve got baseball to play.” Dark mutters and pleasant thanks and everything in between greeted Turner’s announcement, but the reporters understood they were only allowed access to the players at the sufferance of the team management and they weren’t foolish enough to jeopardize their access. In moments, they had all filed out. One covert camera turned Castiel’s way while they were leaving and he resisted the urge to flip off the cameraman. Instead, he forced a smile that he suspected looked more like snarl.

The silence in the room after the reporters left was profound. Every face that Castiel could see from his locker looked relieved, but none more so than Dean. His shoulders were slumped, his brow tight and troubled, his eyes sad. Concerned, Castiel finished getting ready and waited until the buzz of regular conversation filled the air again before he approached and sat on the bench beside Dean.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly.

Shocked, Dean’s head jerked up. His eyes were red, his mouth slack and barely agape. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Castiel was proud of how indifferent he managed to sound.

_Am I alright? God, I don’t know._

_Yes I do._

_I’m not._

_I’m really not._

Shaking his head, Dean didn’t answer, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes. “I don’t fucking know. This whole thing...I warned him. I told him we shouldn’t. But he wanted to, and he thought it’d be okay, and I listened and now we’re screwed. I should have insisted.”

“That worried about your career?” scowled Castiel.

“What?” Dean looked up at him, then away, shaking his head again. “What career? I’m worried about him.” The knot in Castiel’s chest eased despite his lingering anger and jealousy. The care in Dean’s voice was unmistakable. Dean wanted to protect Jimmy.

_Just like I want to protect Dean._

“Don’t be,” suggested Castiel. Dean sighed, catching his lip with his teeth. “He’s always been like that. He and I used to—” Castiel bit back the words. _Jimmy always thought we should go on dates. Jimmy always thought we should share a hotel room. Jimmy always thought no one would notice, or if they did, they wouldn’t care. Jimmy never thought about the consequences. That’s why I had to be the asshole, I had to be in control, I had to keep a handle on everything because he refused to step up and accept that there was a world of difference between how we might wish the world would be and how the world_ actually _was._ “Have you spoken to him?”

“Not since this morning,” Dean said. “I sent him a text but he hasn’t replied. I’d go check on him, but I think Milton would kill me if I did. Like, literally kill me: crucify me outside the stadium and leave my body there as a warning to others.”

“Probably,” Castiel acknowledged, smiling. _I can do this. I can do this for Dean, do this for them. I can be better than I have been. I have to try._ “No one will think it’s weird if I go talk to my brother. I’ll check on him and let you know.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

“I’m glad you two make each other happy.” Castiel tried to sound sincere, tried not to let his bitterness and jealousy tinge his words, but judging by Dean’s troubled expression he suspected he didn’t succeed. It didn’t matter. He didn’t want to think about it more, didn’t want hesitation to give him time to reflect on his intentions. “I’ll see you in the bullpen in half an hour.” Rising before Dean could answer, he headed out the door.

_I hope he’ll be alright without me there to protect him._

_That’s the stupidest fucking thing you’ve thought all day, Novak. Wasn’t I the one explaining to Jimmy that Dean is a big boy who can take care of himself?_

_Yeah – but what will he do if Gordon gets in his face? No – Milligan is there, Lafitte is there, it’ll be alright. Quit making excuses and go talk to your damn brother_.

Anyone who didn’t know Jimmy well would have struggled to locate him, but there was little that Castiel didn’t know about his brother. Either Jimmy was stressed about the current situation, in which case Castiel would find him taking early batting practice, or he wasn’t, in which case he’d most likely be loitering around the bullpen waiting for Manny Banuelos, the Braves starter for the night. Instinct took Castiel to the batting cages first. It was early enough in the day that they should be empty, but he heard the solid _thwack_ of wood striking leather before he opened the door. There wasn’t any doubt in Castiel’s mind who he would find when he opened the door, but he still froze in the doorway when his expectations were confirmed. Jimmy looked slimmer than he actually was in the gray uniform trimmed in red, his body twisted at the waist as he took a ridiculously big swing. The idiot wasn’t even wearing a helmet, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, several loose tufts curling damp around his sweaty face. Another pitch came and he squared up quickly and swung again.

Trying not to startle him, Castiel stepped up to the netting and walked alongside it towards the pitching machine until he was sure he was in Jimmy’s view. Another pitch sailed by as he went, Jimmy cursed, the ball thunked into the back wall, and there was a beep as Jimmy hit the button to stop the machine from hurling another his way.

“Hey Cassie.” Jimmy set the end of his bat on the ground and leaned on it awkwardly, tall enough that the pose caused him to hunch at the waist and shoulder. “Guess I fucked this one up royally. Here to chew me out?”

It hadn’t even occurred to Castiel to do so. Sometime between the talk in Milton’s office and now, all his anger had vanished. _No. It didn’t vanish. It transferred to where it belonged, to the reporters harassing Dean._

 _I really can do this_.

“Are you alright, Jimmy?” he asked. Jimmy’s eyes went wide, his breath caught. “Dean’s worried about you. Milton will use his guts to make jockstraps if he comes and talks to you himself, so I’m here.” There was a pause that felt fucking _endless_. “I’m worried about you, too.”

Jimmy broke into a hesitant smile. _Beautiful..._

“I’m okay,” he said. It didn’t sound like he meant it; he licked his lips and repeated more sincerely, “I really am okay. It was a stupid risk to take. I shouldn’t have pushed him. Now I guess we can’t really see each other – Coppolella suggested I’d play better as a eunuch if I couldn’t behave myself – but, it’s okay. We hardly saw each other anyway. Are _you_ okay, Cassie?”

“Jealous as fuck,” said Castiel unthinkingly. Jimmy’s jaw dropped, Castiel’s brain caught up to his mouth, and his cheeks heated as his brother went pale and then pink. “Um.” Jimmy’s mouth snapped shut, opened again, closed again. “I mean...” Castiel wondered if his face had grown as crimson as his twin’s.

_Well, at least I’m not being a douche bag...no, this is worse..._

“Oh,” Jimmy finally managed. He picked up his bat and took terrible, pointless swings at nothing. “...wait...” Setting the bat aside, Jimmy’s expression went shrewd though his cheeks were still bright. “Are you jealous of Dean, or jealous of me?”

 _This is definitely,_ definitely _worse._

“If you’re going to take batting practice, how do you feel about getting real pitches?” said Castiel. There was absolutely no way that he could answer that question.

“Cassie—”

“Leave it, Jimmy,” he interrupted. “Can we just—I just need to—I’m glad you two found each other, okay?” It sounded much more sincere this time than it had when he said it to Dean earlier. Jimmy broke into a smile that lit his eyes brilliant blue and showed his damn perfect teeth. “I’ve got some time before my bullpen – just a few pitches, help you get your swing ready for tonight?”

“So I can finally get a damn hit off you?” teased Jimmy.

“In your dreams,” Castiel replied, lips quirking into a smile.

“I’d like that...I’d like that a lot, Cassie.”

_I can do this. I can be the brother that Jimmy deserves. I can be the pitcher that Dean deserves._

_And maybe someday it’ll stop hurting so damn much that I can’t be what they are for each other._

_I’ve got no one to blame but myself._

* * *

Every breath of thick air choked at Castiel’s throat. If only it would fricken _rain_ , the humidity would break, maybe the temperature would drop and Castiel wouldn’t feel like he was trying to pitch in a steam room. The morning hadn’t been pleasant but it had been nicer than now; it had gotten steadily hotter and damper throughout the day. As he circled the mound, preparing to throw the first pitch to the Rockies’ lead-off hitter, he rolled the ball in his hand. His skin felt tacky against the leather, the stitching catching against his sweaty joints. Colorado was supposed to have nice, mild weather, wasn’t it? Not 102 in the shade. Fucking climate change.

Castiel attempted a calming breath, but it only served to burn at his lungs. His skin felt disgusting, his shirt clung to him uncomfortably, the hand in his mitt felt afire. Watching Dean stride to his position behind the plate, Castiel felt profoundly sympathetic for him. Castiel was light headed wearing his uniform; how much worse must it be wearing catcher’s gear, too? Even home games in Washington in July weren’t this bad.

Releasing the first pitch of the game, buoyed by the roar of the excited crowd, brought Castiel calm and relief and focus for the half a second it took the ball to reach home plate.

Jose Reyes, a shit eating grin on his face, swung like fucking batting practice. Castiel’s equilibrium shattered to the sound of the cracking of the bat. All he could do was watch as the ball sailed over the wall in left field. Everyone knew [Coors Field](http://colorado.rockies.mlb.com/col/ballpark/information/index.jsp?content=groundrules) was a[bandbox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball#B), not because the dimensions were small but because the high altitude and thin air meant the ball fricken _sailed_ , but Castiel had dared hope that the shit weather and high humidity would deaden the ball.

Well, he was half-right. It deadened his pitches, that was for sure, they were flat and slow, velocity lost to the friction of the sweat on his skin and the thickness of the air. The Rockies came out of the first inning with three runs and Castiel seriously considered swiping some pine tar and illegally applying it to his palms and fingers.

After the Rockies got another two runs in the second, Castiel decided it wasn’t worth the risk. The Nats were already fucked and he’d get suspended if he got caught.

“It’s just one game,” Dean said sagely as they returned to the dugout after the third inning.

“Thanks, Dean, never had a loss before, I might have forgotten,” snapped Castiel angrily, throwing his glove at the bench. He turned to face Dean and took another suffocating breath. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Thank you, I know it’s only one game, but that doesn’t change how frustrating it is.”

Dean froze, helmet half off his head to reveal his sweat-soaked hair and dripping face, his eyes wide and incredibly green. “Sure thing, Cas,” he said faintly. “You’ll—”

“Winchester, are you waiting for a fricken invitation? You’re up!” Turner snapped, throwing a batter’s helmet Dean’s way. Fumbling, Dean barely caught it when it hit him in the chest. Hastily, he tugged off his gear and got ready to bat. “You’re up this inning too,” Turner added, handing Castiel his own helmet. Nodding, Castiel took it but waited until the last possible moment to replace his cap with the dense, padded plastic. Helmets were heavy and uncomfortable even at the best of times, but in the horrid weather they were even worse, holding moisture so close to Castiel’s head that sweat beaded down the back of his neck.

Castiel had planned to make only the most perfunctory attempt for his at-bat. In this kind of weather, wearing himself out by going around the bases was pointless. Not for the first time, he wished the National League used [designated hitters ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Designated_hitter)so he’d be spared the bother. The plan to dog it at the plate didn’t survive Dean’s at bat, though. Squaring up, Dean swung hard and muscled a line drive to center, legged it into a double and slid into second base, knocking over LaMahieu to barely beat the throw. He came up gasping, thick brown dirt covering the leg and ass of his uniform, every inch of exposed skin glistening golden with sweat in the sunset. Pulling off his helmet and batter’s gloves, he tossed them to the first base coach and shot Castiel a cocked smile as Castiel swung his bat aimlessly in the warm up circle. Spangler managed a walk, and Castiel came to bat with no outs, two men on, and the need to do _something_ to help compensate for the six run deficit his team was facing. The whole damn thing was his fault after all.

Getting a bunt down proved easy. The usually pointless run to first base proved the adage that one should always run their hardest as the third baseman got over-excited and his throw sailed over the first baseman’s head. Castiel’s mouth felt fricken filled with water, his lungs churning, but he was on first, bases were loaded, and Talley was coming up. They had a chance to close the deficit.

Instead, Talley hit into a fucking [triple play](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triple_play). It was only the second time in Castiel’s entire career he’d been on the field during one. The first time he and Jimmy had been 14 and a kid had frozen instead of running and gotten tagged standing stock-still between second and third with his mouth agape.

 _Fuck tonight_.

With the game a lost cause, Turner left Castiel in to pitch for no obvious reason. Trying to accommodate the way the weather deadened the ball, Dean changed their game plan, relying on pitch placement instead of speed and the erratic movement of Castiel’s off pitches. It was a good idea, and the fourth and fifth went more smoothly. The Rockies didn’t manage any more runs and Walker, smug son of a bitch, hit a two-run homerun to make a dent in the gap between the two teams. Given that Castiel had thrown 60 pitches in the first two innings alone it was a damn miracle that he even went out to play the sixth.

Well, miracle was the wrong word. Castiel would have given a lot to be cooling down with Jo. His uniform was soaked with sweat, his anger from earlier seethed over every play that went wrong, and a cloud of gnats had settled around his face as he prepared to start the inning off. Reyes was up again, looking even more cocksure than he had the first time. He was queued up for the first pitch fastball; his swing when Castiel threw a change-up instead was comically large. Dean grinned and lowered his hand, shielding it from the view of the opposition with his glove.  Fastball inside, close to Reyes, meant to knock him off the plate. A batter who was comfortable at the plate was a danger and a pitch inside would remind them not to get too secure. Control was the key.

The wind up – Castiel kicked his leg up, cocked his arm back, released the ball, felt it snag for just an instant and knew nothing good was about to happen.

“Shit.”

Across the sixty feet separating home and home plate, Castiel tried to send some sort of warning to both catcher and hitter but there was scarce time for anyone to react, much less get out of the way. Dean recognized trouble when he saw it and he leapt to his feet, getting behind the batter, but it was a lost cause. The ball made an audible slapping sound as it hit Reyes solidly in the knee. The lithe player howled in pain and hit the ground instantly, bat falling from his hands as he clutched at the joint. Ashamed of himself, Castiel turned away, head in his hand.

_God, don’t let him be seriously hurt, don’t let me have broken his bone..._

Scarce seconds passed before the Rockies Manager, a former player named Weiss, was sprinting from the bench onto the field to check on his player. There was shouting from the direction of home plate, the umpire’s gruff voice, Weiss roaring angrily, Reyes attempting to repress pained sounds. From the corner of his eye, Castiel could see more people coming on the field from the Rockies dugout, the medical team hustling to check on the fallen man. Turner came out from the Nationals side, trailed by Singer and Lafitte, of all people, cautiously moving towards the increasingly loud dispute.

“—how fucking stupid are you, of course it wasn’t on purpose—” Dean’s voice came through clearly during a momentary silence.

“You shut your mother-fucking face, Winchester, I know _exactly_ who taught you the game and how your daddy used to play,” snarled a voice Castiel didn’t know. “You got exactly the pitch you called for. You saw—”

“Cool your jets, all of you,” the umpire interjected.

“We’d never call for a pitch like that,” Turner’s voice carried despite his false mildness.

Castiel forced himself to turn around. Dean and Weiss were in each other’s faces, so close that the brim of Weiss’ hat bumped the lip of Dean’s catcher’s helmet. Singer had a firm grip on Dean’s shoulder, the umpire was attempting to interject himself between the two without making physical contact with either, and Weiss was shouting spittle and vitriol, face red. Turner gestured for Castiel to come closer but he shook his head. He wanted no part of the fight. It was an accident. No one intentionally hit other players any more, or at least it happened very infrequently. The danger of injury was too great.

Dean threw his hands up and turning away with a furious scowl. He’d not managed a step before Weiss grabbed his shoulder. Furious, the umpire made a dramatic gesture towards the Rockies dugout – mostly empty, Castiel noticed unhappily, the players had vacated to take the field, shouting their own angry contributions to the growing brawl – ejecting Weiss from the game. The crowd roared and booed and catcalled. At least Dean didn’t rise to the challenge; if he touched Weiss, he’d get thrown out too, and possibly face a suspension. Weiss transferred his anger to the ump, getting in his face, the two shouting at each other from inches apart as more players approached with angry words and gestures.

_What a cluster fuck, and it’s all my fault._

“Cas,” Dean’s voice, steady and calm, cut through Castiel’s recrimination. He’d been so distracted by everything he’d somehow missed Dean’s approach. Singer was feet behind him, chest huffing as he trotted and tried to breathe against the humidity. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said flatly. “How is Reyes?”

“Heard him talking to the doc, doesn’t sound too bad,” Singer explained. “Don’t worry, none of us are idjits enough to think you did that on purpose. Weiss won’t think it either once he’s cooled down and reviewed the game footage.”

“Good.”

“Let’s get you off the field,” suggested Singer. “You’re done for the night, we’ll get you cooled down and you don’t have to start worrying about your next game until tomorrow.”

“You always know exactly what to say,” Dean grinned. “Come on, Cas, it’s okay. Even if he’s hurt, it’s not your fault. This shit happens.”

“Your just full of platitudes tonight,” Cas replied sourly as they walked as a group to the dugout. The jeers of the crowd followed him, the shouts of the opposition player, the slowly fading sound of the argument between Weiss and the umpire. “But that one is fucking bullshit. Of course it was my fault.”

Castiel was depressed yet grateful when Dean didn’t argue the point further.

Normally, no matter how bad a start he had, Castiel forced himself to stick around and watch the rest of the game, but he didn’t bother that night. Instead, he retreated to the training room, soaked in the air conditioning, let Jo stretch him and coddle him and pass on updates that she got over her headset. The fight was over – the game was resuming - Tanner was in to pitch the rest of the 6th – Weiss and his pitching coach had both been ejected – Dean got a third hit, driving in two runs for the Nats and bringing the game to within two – but Castiel remained tense until the bottom of the 9th when she finally, brightly supplied the information that a medical report on Reyes was in it.

“X-rays are negative,” she grinned with obvious relief. Castiel felt something tight in his chest release and he took a shaky, deep breath. “Sounds like he’s going to have one hell of a bruise and he probably won’t play tomorrow – maybe not even the rest of the series – but he’ll be fine.”

“Thank fucking God,” Castiel muttered. “I’ve never...I’ve never hurt someone badly before.”

“And you haven’t hurt someone badly now!”

“Thanks, Jo,” he huffed another breath out, knees suddenly weak. “I think I’m done – can I just sit for a bit?”

“Of course,” she said. He looked up to catch her troubled expression.

“I’m fine, it’s just been a stressful night...”

“Hey, a little help over here?” interrupted Tanner; the pitcher had arrived minutes ago to start his own cool down. Jo gave Castiel an apologetic look, a perky thumbs up, and hurried over to work with the other players.

Sinking into a rickety chair, Castiel focused on his breathing, letting his eyes slide shut to block his view of the training room. Losing he could handle, pitching badly he could handle, but the prospect that someone might have been hurt – that someone might have lost the ability to play – because of a mistake that he made was nauseating. It wasn’t the first time he hit a player, of course, he’d done so more than once. Pitching inside always brought a risk. Usually, close calls and near misses brushed uniforms or smacked into backs or skimmed arms. Nothing likely to debilitate anyone. That didn’t mean getting hit didn’t hurt, of course it did, but there was a world of difference between a ball to the back and a ball to a joint.

_It’s okay, it’s alright, he’s alright, he’s—_

“You’re okay, Cas.” There was a hint of a question, a hint of concern, a hint of reassurance in Dean’s tone. Castiel felt weight settle on the chair beside his and opened his eyes to see Dean looking at him earnestly. He looked shitty. Exhaustion pinched his eyes, white streaks marked where sweat had dripped and then dried to leave a salty film on his skin, and his hair stuck out in every direction. Nonetheless, he was smiling, his green gaze seeming to gather the light in the room. A powerful urge to wrap his arms around the catcher’s broad shoulders seized Castiel, the desire to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder and gather every bit of reassurance that Dean offered. He fought the impulse down.

_He’s my catcher but he’s nothing else – in every other respect he’s Jimmy’s._

“I’m fine, Dean,” he replied.

“You’re a shit liar,” laughed Dean. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“How ‘bout dinner, then?” Dean suggested. “There’s this place near the stadium that has the best damn wings I’ve ever found and they’ve got a private back room to give players some privacy.”

“Jimmy might object to you asking me out on a date.” Castiel tried to make his tone light. He had no idea if he succeeded, but he suspected not judging by the way Dean’s face went blotchy, white where he wasn’t flushed from the heat and an apparent sunburn, freckles dark by contrast.

“I wasn’t – I mean – it’s not – don’t get me wrong – that is – I don’t think Jimmy would mind,” Dean stammered. Castiel’s jaw dropped. “Wait, no, that’s not what I meant, fuck that sounded wrong.”

_We could get dinner, just the three of us, and afterwards..._

_...my hand on Dean’s cheek, pulling him into a kiss until we’re both breathless, Jimmy’s hand knocking mine aside, grabbing Dean’s chin, pulling him from kissing one brother to kissing the other, Dean’s chest fluttering as he tried to catch his breath, kissing the air from his lungs until he’s swooning drunk with desire..._

_...matched hands wrapping around Dean’s cock until he’s whimpering and begging, stammering, words tangling as he tries to moan for Jimmy and Castiel both..._

_...a tangle of limbs on an enormous bed, all three too flushed with release and satisfaction to bother with blankets, snuggling close, no way to tell whose arms and legs are whose, no sense that it mattered as long as they were together..._

“It’s just dinner,” Dean finished lamely. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine too. I thought you might like some company. It’s been a long, shit day.”

“Yeah, it has,” Castiel nodded, shoulders slumping as he tamped down the fantasy. He was having thoughts like that more and more and he fucking hated it. No, he didn’t, he fucking _loved_ it, and he fucking hated _that_ , because everything he wanted was so damn impossible. “Wings sound great. Let’s do it.”

* * *

 

"A lot of people are saying you hit Reyes on purpose,” said the interviewer leadingly. Castiel tried and failed to keep the scowl off his face. He didn’t want to talk with the man but Turner had insisted and now Castiel was trapped on the bench during the last game of the Rockies series, a headset feeding his words to the viewers at home.

“I didn’t,” Castiel said, flat and emotionless. “I’d never do something like that. No self-respecting pitcher would.”

Tran threw a pitch, Gerardo Parra hit into a pop-fly that Milligan caught easily, and the Nationals came off the field as the fourth inning came to an end.

“There’s a long history of pitchers hitting players in retribution for the player getting a hit or making a good play,” the reporter – Castiel hadn’t caught the man’s name – suggested. “And you _do_ have a history of such actions.”

After the eventful game the night before, the afternoon had been dull. Tran was pitching well, the Nationals were up by two and hitting well and the weather was hot but the humidity had broken.

“I don’t—”

“Bartholomew Boyle? When you were in college, weren’t you expelled from a game for hitting him with a pitch? After he hit a lead-off homerun against you?” A grin painted the asshole’s face, the cat who caught the canary. “Precisely the same as Jose Reyes hit a lead-off homerun against you yesterday, and later in the game...”

Castiel struggled to hold onto the relaxation that dinner with Dean had left him with. As so often happened, Dean’s calm, steady equilibrium had helped Castiel come to terms with his mistake. It was one of the many ways that set Dean in contrast to Jimmy. Jimmy’s solution to Castiel’s stress would have been enthusiastic, angry, loud sex.

“I didn’t hit Reyes on purpose,” Castiel repeated. The sex _had_ been awesome. It drained the emotions but didn’t _fix_ them. After spending time with Dean, though, Castiel felt genuinely better, the anger and frustration dulled and faded. It was nice, dangerously nice.

Hitting Reyes had been an accident. Even if he’d hurt Reyes, that wouldn’t have changed that Castiel’s pitch placement hadn’t been intentional. Since he _hadn’t_ hurt Reyes, it was a moot point regardless. _No harm, no foul_.

“Many people _have_ commented that your pitching has seemed more erratic in the week since you found out that your brother is dating Dean Winchester,” the reporter said leadingly with false sympathy.

“I have no comment on that, though I believe that Manager Milton and the Brave’s Manager Coppolella have sufficiently addressed that false story,” Castiel said.

“Surely it must be troubling – distracting – whether the story is true or not, it must be on your mind.” This asshole simply wouldn’t let anything drop. Some journalists at least _pretended_ to have ethical standards and behave politely. “What’s your side of things?”

The Rockies players ran out onto the field for the top of the fifth inning as the gathered crowd oohed and aahed and laughed over the footage playing on the Jumbotron [Kiss Cam](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kiss_cam).

“I do not have a ‘side’ of a non-existent issue,” Castiel said. “Do you have any questions about my actual play?” The reporter opened his mouth to talk. “Questions that _aren’t_ about my accidentally hitting Reyes yesterday?”

Walking by, patting his helmet down, bat in hand, Dean gave him a sympathetic look. Castiel had been pissed when the lineup indicated that Dean was playing two games in a row, but Singer had explained that, with the pitching lineup they expected in Atlanta the next few days, there’d be no reason for Dean to be in those games and thus he’d have three days off before Castiel’s next start on Sunday. Castiel had let it drop. It wasn’t really his business anyway. He’d done what he could, pitching to Lafitte for as many of his bullpen sessions as he could. He’d quit pushing Dean to do more, finding subtle ways to lighten his workload, since Dean refused to step back on his own.

“15 wins for the season and it’s only mid-August, that’s one of the most impressive records in baseball, but you’ve got some competition for the mantle of ‘winningest pitcher of 2016.’ Arrieta won last night, whereas you lost, so you’re tied again. Do you think you’ll end up with more than him? Do you think you’ll break 20?” The reporter looked sour, but he couldn’t keep belaboring the other points, which left him only with the kinds of questions everyone asked.

Dean trotted from the warm up circle to the batter’s box. He moved a little stiffly, his knees not bending as agilely as they should. With how the game was going, Castiel found himself hoping that Dean would intentionally strike out. The Nationals were winning, there was no call for Dean to wear himself out running the bases were he to get a hit. At dinner the night before it had been impossible to ignore the way he favored the leg he’d used for his slide into second base.

“Arrieta’s one hell of a pitcher,” Castiel rewarded the reporter’s question with an actual, if stock, answer to match the stock question. “Regardless of my performance, he’s having a season for the record books and I wish him the best of luck.” Dean swung through a fastball. The Jumbotron lit up with a CGI video of pitcher Jon Gray with his hair on fire as they’d done every time he threw a pitch over 100 mph on the radar gun. “As to myself...I expect to have either eight or nine more starts this season. Winning five of them doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibility, but I’ll take it one game at a time.” Dean held off swinging at a ball in the dirt. The umpires call of one-and-one was easily audible from the dugout.

“What about the Nationals’ chances of making the post-season? The Braves are still clinging to their lead in the NL East by half a game, and the Mets are only two games out...”

The third pitch was low and away; Dean watched it, his expression intent. Castiel’s eyes flicked to Gray. He was young, a rookie, but he’d been having a great first season; a lot of people were considered him Rookie of the Year material. Now, he had an intense, tight-browed look on his face as he caught the ball and prepared for his next pitch.

“We leave here to play four against the Braves at Turner Field,” Castiel replied. “We’re going to come out of that leading the National League East.”

“Wow, pretty confident there,” laughed the reporter.

“Yes, I am,” said Castiel. Gray’s mouth was set in a frown, his eyes dark beneath the brim of his cap. He adjusted his grip on the ball behind his glove, wound up, and threw a fastball. “We’re a better—”

The sickening crack of the baseball hitting the plastic of Dean’s helmet interrupted Castiel. The bat slid from suddenly numb fingers as Dean fell limply to the ground without making a sound, eyes rolling back in his head. There was a collective gasp from the twenty thousand some-odd fans assembled for the game and then stunned silence fell over the stadium.

“Holy shit...” Castiel was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, charging forward. “Dean!” The cord of his headset caught taut and jerked him back. Dean wasn’t moving at all and Castiel’s stomach churned.

 _This is my fault_.

He ripped the headset off but the delay meant that Singer and Turner were out of the dugout before him, both sprinting towards home plate. Castiel was a step behind them, the emergency medical staff on his heels.

 _This is because I hit Reyes yesterday_.

The distance between the dugout and home had never seemed longer. Dean _still_ hadn’t moved.

_He has to be okay. He has to be._

“Is he alright?” demanded Castiel, coming up behind Turner, Singer and the umpire. One of the medical staff shoved him out of the way and dropped down next to Dean, lifting his eyelids and cupping a hand over his mouth.

“Get back in the dugout, Novak,” snapped Turner. “This has nothing to do with you.”

 _Yes it does, it has everything to do with me. He’s_ my catcher _and he’s hurt because of me._

It was harder than it should have been for Castiel to force himself to back away a few steps to make room for the EMTs. He glanced towards the dugout as two burly men ran up the stairs trailed by two women bearing a litter. Trying to gather his scattered thoughts, his eyes scanned back to Dean’s unconscious body, taking in the whole scene: Weiss and his staff hesitantly emerging from the Rockies dugout, the opposing catcher turning to look uncertainly between his coach and his pitcher, the umpire stern as he watched everyone to make sure there wasn’t a repeat of the previous day’s fight, Singer’s distressed flat-lipped expression, Turner’s anger as he stepped back to make room for the emergency staff who descended on Dean and immediately shifted him onto the board, and Gray, circling the mound with a smug, pleased look on his face.

 _You fucking son of a bitch, you hit Dean on purpose, I will fucking_ end you _...no one hurts my family..._

The world washed in red, rage devouring every other thought. The next thing Castiel knew, he was halfway across the infield, breathless, his ears ringing. There was blood on his knuckles, someone was shouting something indecipherable directly into his ear, restraining hands were on his shoulders and arms, and Gray was sprawled on his ass on the mound before him, confident smirk replaced by a stunned look as he wiped blood from his chin.

 _You goddamn bastard_.

Castiel didn’t mean Gray.

_If I was a better pitcher – if I hadn’t screwed up yesterday – if I hadn’t let all this shit get to me – if, if, if – damn it, Dean – I’m sorry, I’m so sorry – please open your eyes – please open your beautiful eyes..._

_...what am I going to tell Jimmy?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate: this is a fictionalized Jon Gray. Basically no actual major league players in the modern age would do what I have him do here. Sure, people get hit in the head occasionally, but it's an accident. Almost no one intentionally hits other players any more (it happens maybe once or twice a season?). So yeah. Sorry, Real Jon Gray.


	12. Chapter 12

_Castiel (5:24 PM): Call me when you get this._

_Castiel (5:26 PM): I know you’ve got a game tonight but it’s important._

Morose, Castiel slumped into the chair in the office Turner was using temporarily while they were in Colorado. Castiel had been exiled from the field and the dugout – assaulting a fellow player generally had that result – and he wanted nothing more than to find someone, _anyone_ , who could tell him how Dean was doing, but he was confined to the Manager’s office until the end of the game. Presumably he’d be in trouble for hitting Gray no matter how deserved it was. Castiel’s poking around the internet suggested he’d get at least a five game suspension, which meant he’d miss his next start. He couldn’t make himself care. Was Dean alright? Was he conscious? After a blow like that, he must have a concussion, right? What would Jimmy say? With nothing to distract him, he was jittery, his leg shaking, a finger tapping on the arm rest. Maybe he’d start pacing again, but the office was only six strides long and looping it for the first twenty minutes he’d been there had made him stir crazy.

_Castiel (5:31 PM): I mean it, Jimmy._

_Castiel (5:32 PM): Not to frighten you or anything I’m sure it’s not that serious._

Castiel had no fucking clue how serious it was. If a medical report had come through no one had bothered to tell him. Surging to his feet, Castiel went back to manically stalking back and forth, growling swear words under his breath. It took willpower not to glance at his phone repeatedly. There was no way that Jimmy would get back to him so quickly and no one else ever texted him. Checking his phone only reminded him how agonizingly slowly the time was passing.

It was nearly six before there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Castiel snarled as if it were his damn office. There was no way it was Turner; the manager wouldn’t bother to knock. Sure enough, the door opened hesitantly and Jo stuck her head in.

“There you are,” she said, relieved. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“You could have texted me,” snapped Castiel. Rather than matching his pique, she stepped into the room, crossed her arms over her chest and gave him an unimpressed look. He exhaled explosively and flung himself back in the chair, elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor. “Is Dean alright?”

“We’re still waiting for the MRI results,” she explained. “He’s at the University of Colorado’s hospital and—”

“They took him to a _training hospital_?” Castiel was on his feet again in an instant, throwing his arms up, pacing the two strides to the back wall.

“It’s the best hospital in the city,” she continued calmly. “Unlike Dean, I don’t see any need to put up with you when you’re being petulant. I thought you’d like to know. If you’re going to keep acting like a child I’ll leave you here.”

He rounded on her angrily. “I’m fucking worried about him, is that so damn hard to believe?”

“Of course it’s not. I figured you would be, so I’m here to kidnap you.” Despite her apparent irritation she gave him a bright smile. He blinked at her, stunned. “All I’ve heard so far is that an x-ray was negative. I figure if we want information we should go straight to the source. Want to go to the hospital with me?”

“Don’t you have to help with the post-game?” he asked. “How will we get there? Do you have a rental?”

Jo shrugged. “Everyone on the team is an adult. If they can’t manage their own post-game routines by now there’s nothing I can do about it.” Reaching into the pocket of her athletic pants, she produced a set of car keys. “Anyway, I won’t get in much trouble, this was Singer’s idea. ‘Don’t want him wakin’ up alone in a strange place,’ he said. God, he’s such a fricken softy. He’s lending us his car, reasons Turner can always yell at you tomorrow instead.”

“I’m sure he will,” Castiel said. “Loudly. But no louder than today. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Merely _knowing_ that he was about to see Dean eased some of his anxiety. Jo beamed at him as if she could read his mind and Castiel flushed hot.

_Thank fucking God she can’t read my mind…_

With the game in the ninth, it wasn’t much hassle to get away from the stadium. The staff hallways were empty, most fans were still in their seats, and the worst of rush hour traffic had passed. The drive to the hospital wasn’t a long one, facilitated by the GPS in Singer’s rental car. They spoke little, tension thick. Castiel’s nerves wound tighter again as his phone remained silent. Despite her light attitude, it was obvious that Jo was worried too; whenever she wasn’t looking at him her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, her brow furrowed. If Castiel wasn’t so worried himself he’d try to calm her, but he had no reassuring words to offer. Pitches to the head didn’t happen often and their helmets were supposed to protect them from the worst injuries. Dean should never have lost consciousness in the first place. It was a one-in-a-million accident.

 _And fucking Jon Gray had looked_ smug _about it!_

A hand on his knee startled him and he realized he’d been growling in the back of his throat. Jo pulled the car up to a red light and gave him a sympathetic smile.

“You really care about him, don’t you?” she said. He shrugged, unwilling to share any of his varied feelings. “He’s gonna be fine, Cas. And he’s going to want to watch the footage of you punching Gray about a thousand times. That was something else – what were you _thinking_?”

“He hit Dean on purpose,” Castiel replied, temper flaring. She made a startled noise. “I shouldn’t let myself get so angry, though.”

“Yeah, that was a shit idea,” she agreed. “But I bet Dean will appreciate you defending his honor.”

“Or he’ll think I’m an idiot for endangering my chance at getting 20 wins.”

“Don’t sound so sad,” she said with more false brightness. Apparently, as long as she was comforting him she could pretend she wasn’t as upset and nervous as he was. “Maybe he’ll feel both!”

They pulled up to the hospital while they were talking. It was after hours, so there was ample parking available. Castiel was still in his uniform and he got strange looks from the few people around as he walked in the visitor’s entrance behind Jo. She spoke with the receptionist briefly, flashed her ID, and moments later a nurse led them through the halls, up several stories in the elevator, and into a locked ward that she used her name badge to access.

“Mr. Winchester is in Room 534,” she explained, pointing down the hallway. “He’s not woken up yet. Try not to disturb him.” She didn’t let them proceed until they both nodded.

Castiel wasn’t sure what he was expecting when they walked into the room – he didn’t have much experience with hospitals or people with serious injuries – but he was taken aback by how _normal_ Dean looked. _Of course he looks normal, it’s been like two hours_. There wasn’t much medical equipment. Two monitors tracked Dean’s heartbeat and other vitals. An IV dripped slowly and steady breaths caused the plain white blanket covering him to rise and fall. He looked so peaceful that he might have been asleep. Castiel couldn’t see any injury, not even a bruise on his face or head.

Jo grabbed a couple chairs from a stack in the corner of the room and set them beside the bed, offering one to Castiel as she dropped into one herself. Taking a seat, Castiel was frustrated to find that the knot of anxiety in his chest was worse in Dean’s presence than it had been before. Seeing him should have put those worries to rest, but instead new ones kept springing up.

_If there’s nothing visibly wrong with him, then why is he unconscious? How serious is it? What’s wrong with him? Damn it, Dean, wake up!_

_When will he be able to catch again? How will I play without him?_

_No, no, that’s the wrong way to think. This isn’t about me, this is about him._

_Punching Gray isn’t what ruined my chance of 20 wins. I lost that chance the minute the ball struck Dean._

_No, don’t think that way. I can pitch to someone else. I have to. There’s no choice._

_I lost Jimmy and now I’ve lost Dean. How am I supposed to do this without them?_

They’d been sitting in silence for some time, Dean’s chest rising and falling steadily, the heart monitor beeping at regular intervals, Castiel’s thoughts an endless, frustrating swirl, when Jo’s phone chimed a rising tone of bells. She made a frustrated sound and shot Dean a look as she pulled it from her pocket, but he didn’t respond to the noise and Castiel felt a flare of worry like a fist around his throat.

_Please let him be alright._

“Crap, I gotta go,” she said, shoving the phone back in her pocket. “Will you be okay here?”

“Oh, no, I can’t possibly sit alone with the unconscious guy,” he replied sarcastically.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” She rolled her eyes. “I should be back in about an hour? Sam needs a pick up from the airport.”

“Sam...Dean’s brother? He’s here?” The sick tension in Castiel ramped up higher. _It must be serious if his brother flew here from California_. _Oh God, I really did get him badly hurt. Who cares if he can catch for me, Dean is my friend and he’s Jimmy’s boyfriend and they really like each other and..._

_...and I really like him too..._

_It was bad enough thinking I might have busted up Jose Reyes’ knee but this is even worse, so much worse._

_Because it’s Dean._

_God, I’m screwed._

A hand on his cheek pulled him from his anxious spiral. “Cas.” Jo stood over him – he hadn’t even noticed her rising – and met his eyes with a painfully gentle expression. “You really do like him a lot, don’t you,” she said again. He scowled rather than answer but he couldn’t bring himself to stop meeting her eyes as her smile grew broader. “Dean’s got a hard head, he’ll be back before you even notice he’s been gone!”

“Bull,” Castiel muttered. Her expression fell. “But...thanks for trying, Jo. One way or another, we’ll know soon. Go get Dean’s brother. He must be pretty worried to have made the flight out.”

“Sam knows the team is leaving tonight after the game and he doesn’t want Dean to stay in the hospital for an indefinite amount of time alone,” she said.

“I’m not leaving tonight,” Castiel said, tearing his eyes from her clear gaze to look again at Dean’s unconscious form. “I’ll catch a flight to Atlanta tomorrow.”

“That’s a conversation for you to have with Turner, not me.” She gave him a pat on the cheek that was strangely motherly. “I’ll be back later. Hopefully, we’ll have some news by then. Try not to freak out.”

“I do _not_ freak out.”

“You punched Jon Gray in the jaw,” she laughed. “And I just said your name three times without getting an answer. You _totally_ freak out. Text or call if you need me, okay?” The urge to snap at her that he didn’t need a keeper was strong, but he repressed it. _Have to learn to control my temper. I_ have _to. Shouldn’t have gotten upset about Jimmy and Dean, shouldn’t have gotten upset at Dean when I played like crap, shouldn’t have punched Gray...it all comes back to me and my shit impulse control._

 _I will do better_.

With Jo gone, Castiel sat alone in the room, silent and still save for the repetitive beep of the heart monitor and the soft susurration of Dean’s breathing.

_I shouldn’t have—_

_No. I will do better._

_I can’t pitch without—_

_No. I will do better._

_What if he can’t—_

_No. I will do better._

The blanket spread over Dean twitched and pulled as he shifted beneath it. Instantly, Castiel looked to his face, watched Dean grimace, grunt, cough, and flutter his eyes open.

_So green. God, he’s beautiful, I just want to brush the hair from his forehead, hold him until he feels better, tell him it’s going to be okay—_

_It’s not my place to do any of that. It’s Jimmy’s place. He’s Jimmy’s._

_I will do better._

“Dean?” Castiel asked. Dean looked at him blankly. Dean’s mouth moved but no sound came out, pink tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. “Are you thirsty?”

“Yeah.” The word was raspy. Castiel looked around, spotted an empty cup and hastily filled it in the bathroom. Holding it to Dean’s lips, he tilted it carefully and trickled water down his throat.

_I never noticed how plush his lips are. I could kiss them damp, kiss them red, kiss them until he’s drunk on it..._

_Not the time, not the place, not the person, not for me. I will do better._

“Better?”

“Yeah, thanks...” There was a strange hesitancy in Dean’s voice. Drawing back, Castiel frowned at him. Some deep thought had Dean’s forehead furrowed, his lip caught between his teeth. “...why are you in a baseball uniform?”

“Huh?” Castiel was so startled he spilled water on Dean’s blanket. Flushing, he set the cup down on a tray beside the bed.

“You’re my nurse, right?” Confusion tinged Dean’s voice. Castiel glanced at his face; there was something mischievous to the tilt of Dean’s eyes as he added, “well, at least you’re hot. The last time I was in the hospital...” Dean shook his head, his eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned. “Damn it – what the hell happened to me? That fricken hurt.”

“Dean...”

“Wow, we’re on a first name basis? What, have we met before? Or are you a fan? That why you’re in the uniform?” Dean slipped into an easy, sexy – _no, damn it, stop thinking that way_ – grin. “It’d be more flattering if you were actually, ya know, wearing _my_ jersey. Actually...I don’t think they sell a jersey for me. Maybe one of my dad’s; at least it’s got my name and number on it even if they’re all for the wrong teams.”

“This is _my uniform_ , Dean...” Dean gave him that disturbingly blank look again and Castiel’s stomach dropped. “It’s me, it’s Castiel...” There wasn’t a hint of recognition on Dean’s face. _Shit, his injuries really are serious. Fucking amnesia? Seriously? I’d better call the nurse_ , _I’d better...if he doesn’t remember me, if he doesn’t remember Jimmy...wait, he said I was hot, he said I..._

Dean’s lips quirked into a smile and he snorted. Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Dean,” he said sternly. A shit-eating grin came over Dean’s face, his eyes twinkling. “Dean!”

Dean broke into uproarious laughter, trying to speak between laughs. “Oh man, the look on your face! If you hadn’t looked so damn _worried_ I coulda kept that up all night but...” He trailed off with a pained grimace, though his eyes still sparkled in the harsh fluorescent lighting. “Come on, Cas, even if I had amnesia how stupid would I have to be to think my nurse would be wearing a baseball uniform? Aw, don’t scowl like that – if it helps I really _don’t_ remember what happened. Last thing I can think of, I was getting ready to take an at-bat…?”

“You were hit in the head by a pitch,” Castiel tried to maintain the appearance of anger but it was tough. Dean looked so ridiculously _happy_ over his annoying joke, he was smiling, he was _alright_. He sounded normal; he sounded like _Dean_.

 _Thank God_.

“Well, that explains why I feel like someone brained me,” said Dean. He pulled his arm out from under the sheets, tangling it in the cords for the IV as he flailed for the cup of water. Castiel got it for him and helped him take another drink. “Laughing didn’t help. Not my best idea ever. How serious is the damage?” The syllables slurred together and Castiel’s happiness plummeted.

“Don’t know,” Castiel said. Judging by Dean’s behavior, Castiel feared it was pretty bad. “All I know is that your skull is in one piece – x-rays were negative. We need to let the hospital staff know that you’re awake.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re next of kin, they wouldn’t tell...you...” Dean trailed off, frowning. “Wait, why _are_ you here? Shouldn’t you be—”

The ringtone that Jimmy had set for himself, same as his walk-on music at the stadium, burst loudly into their quiet conversation. Dean snorted as Bachman stuttered out, “b-b-b-b-baby you just ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Grabbing it from his pocket and answering in one motion, Castiel spoke into the mouthpiece immediately.

“It’s alright – everything is alright.” He tried to sound reassuring but more than anything he sounded relieved. _I don’t know that – Dean obviously has a concussion and some bruising and trauma to go with it but beyond that..._

“No it’s not, it’s obviously not! Oh God, what’s happened? Are you hurt, Cassie?” Jimmy was frantic and breathless.

_Maybe I should have stayed at the stadium. At this point they probably know more than I do even though I’m in the same damn room as Dean._

“No, I’m—”

_But no one there has seen Dean open his eyes, they haven’t seen him smile, they haven’t heard him laugh. I have because I’m here. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. Dean’s got to be okay._

“Dean! Shit, it’s gotta be Dean! What happened to him? Why wouldn’t you just tell me what happened instead of sending those fucking vague-ass texts? You could have called the stadium, you could have—”

“Breathe, brother,” Castiel interrupted harshly.

“That Jimmy?” asked Dean. Castiel nodded and Dean got an elbow under him, expression tightening with pain as he shifted to a half-seated position, reaching out with his other hand. Scowling, Castiel shook his head and Dean’s expression turned sour. He slumped back and groaned softly when his head hit the pillow.

“Was that Dean?” Jimmy demanded. “Cassie, _tell me what happened_.”

“That was Dean,” confirmed Castiel.

“Lemme talk to him,” Dean mumbled pleadingly. The words blurred together and Castiel felt a surge of guilt. More than anything, Dean needed to rest, he needed treatment, he needed his doctors. He didn’t need Castiel distracting him and exciting him. Closing and opening his eyes to collect himself, Castiel took the phone from his ear.

“You’re on speaker, Jimmy,” he shared, poking at the touch screen.

“Dean?!”

“Hey, Jimmy.” Dean gave an adorable wave towards the phone.

“What happened?”

“Not sure,” admitted Dean. “Cas says I got hit by a pitch...? My head hurts.”

“Fuck,” muttered Jimmy.

“It was in the fifth, Jimmy,” Castiel clarified. “Gray—”

“Gimme a minute, Cassie, I’m gonna...” Jimmy trailed off. Silence stretched out, and then over the phone Castiel could hear a familiar voice he couldn’t place.

“And we’re back in the fifth here in sunny, sultry Colorado—”

“Never thought you’d say that, did you, Josie? Since when is it this humid in Colorado?”

“Who cares, Cain? We’ve got Dean Winchester up to bat to start the Nationals off. Should be a quick 1-2-3 up and down this inning, since after Winchester is the pitcher’s spot, then we’re back to Talley. When two out of three hitters due up are batting on the turnpike, you can’t expect—”

“For the folks at home, she means they’re averages are low. Winchester’s is on the modest rise at .206, but Tran has only had 2 hits all season.”

“That’s great, Cain, if you don’t stop interrupting me I’m going to send you for hotdogs.” Cain laughed. Jimmy grunted in frustration; Castiel glanced at Dean to see his reaction to the negative commentary but Dean’s gaze had wandered, his eyes unfocused, blinking lazily. Castiel’s stomach twisted with worry. “And the first pitch is a scorching one hundred mile per hour fastball, swung on and missed. Winchester wasn’t even in the right time zone to hit that, was he?”

“The thing about a pitch that fast is how little time you have to react. No one who hasn’t seen it from the batter’s box can really understand. Back when I was playing, the fastest I saw was in the mid-90s and even that, well, you had to decide to swing before it ever left the pitcher’s hand and hope for the best.”

“In Winchester’s case that swing was damn far from his best. Ball in the dirt, the count is one and one.”

“Gray is definitely moving things along here, this is one of the fastest pitched games I’ve seen in a while! It’s refreshing, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, the average length of a baseball game has gone from – and there’s the third pitch, down and out.”

“Good eye not to swing on the change-up, that pitch would have looked a beaut off the mound but the bottom fell right out of it! Gray’s secondary pitches have been improving a lot of late.”

A knot of anticipation in Castiel’s chest went tight even though he knew what to expect.

“And the wind up – great lift Gray gets on that leg, part of why he can throw so fast, and—”

The crack of the baseball hitting Dean’s helmet was audible even from wherever the commentators sat. There was a collective gasp from the watching fans and Jimmy made a strangled, choked-off noise. Absolute silence fell between Josie and Cain, a pall over the entire stadium. Muttering started in the background, quiet mutters as the crowd reacted, and Cain resumed the color commentary.

“For those listening at home, Dean Winchester has been hit in the head by the pitch – a hundred and one on the radar gun – and he’s not moving. Nationals Manager Rufus Turner and pitching coach Robert Singer are coming out to check on him – who’s that coming next? Is that—”

“Yes, it’s yesterday’s starter Castiel Novak. As everyone who follows the Nationals knows, Winchester is his dedicated catcher. You know, they say the days of retribution hits are past but it’s pretty suspicious – Novak ‘accidentally’ hits Jose Reyes yesterday, and today the Rockies’ pitcher takes out a player on whom Novak relies...”

“Are you suggesting Jon Gray hit another player in the head on _purpose_?”

“Maybe he didn’t mean to hit Winchester in the head, but his control has been poor all day. He’d just thrown two balls in the dirt – he was probably aiming for Winchester’s back.”

“I can’t imagine that he’d – wait, what’s Novak doing?” Cain choked up, incredulous, as Josie laughed.

“Cassie, you didn’t!” exclaimed Jimmy.

“Well, no doubt that Novak thinks it was no accident!”

“He had it coming,” Castiel said calmly. “He hit Dean.”

“And that’s two bench-clearing brawls for the Rockies and Nationals in two days, in case anyone is keeping score. Last night’s didn’t lead to any fines or suspensions, but that seems less likely today.”

“Certainly – considering Novak just assaulted the opposing pitcher, he at least will face a multi-game suspension. If MLB decides that Gray hit Winchester intentionally, he’ll be penalized as well.”

“Did you see the look on Gray’s face? He _absolutely_ did that on purpose.” Josie sounded strangely excited at the prospect. “What are some player outcomes after injuries like this?”

“Not many headshots in baseball. Last one that springs to mind is David Wright. He—”

The sound of the commentators cut off.

“What’d you do, Cas?” Dean asked into the sudden silence.

“He punched Gray in the face,” supplied Jimmy, delight and satisfaction sharing equal part in his voice. “There was blood and everything. I’m so proud of you, brother.”

“Oh, man, Cas,” groaned Dean. “Why’d you—?”

“Dean, he had it coming for what he did to you,” Castiel reiterated. All sorts of doubts plagued Castiel, new ones forming as he watched Dean’s abstracted expression and as he felt how _easy_ their three-way conversation was, but he hadn’t the least regret that he’d dealt appropriate retribution for Dean’s injury. Even if Major League Baseball didn’t declare Gray complicit, Castiel knew what he’d seen.

“But if you can’t play—”

“Calm down, Dean,” he interrupted, troubled by the flush rising on Dean’s cheeks and the way he shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “I’m going to call the nurse to check on you and go to the waiting room to speak with Jimmy, alright?”

“But—”

“You rest up,” Jimmy cut in. “We can talk more later, okay?”

“Sure,” grumbled Dean. “I’m calling my own damn nurse, though.” Suiting action to words, Dean reached for his call button and pressed it, lighting an LED that flashed red. “And he’d better be hot!”

_Dean said I was hot._

“Your nurse is a woman, her name is Ava, and she’s moderately attractive,” said Castiel. Dean looked slightly mollified. “I’ll be back soon. Also, Jo will return with your brother shortly.”

“That’d be nice,” Dean replied vaguely, his focus waning again. Castiel’s troubled thoughts amplified as he headed for the door and switched the phone off speaker.

“Give me a minute, Jimmy,” he said softly as he walked down the hall, following signs to a small, deserted seating area a few doors down from Dean’s. The room was claustrophobic, stuffed with folding chairs, a TV mounted on one wall. Castiel closed the door behind him, reached up to turn the television off and hoped that no one else joined him. “I’m worried, Jimmy.”

“I am too, Cassie.”

“When he first woke up he was laughing and joking, but since then he’s seemed in and out,” Castiel slouched back in his chair, let his head clunk against the wall. His eyes slipped shut and he used the hand that wasn’t holding the phone to massage his temples.

“How long has he been conscious?” asked Jimmy.

“Just a few minutes when you called.” Castiel dragged his hand down his face, stretching his skin, tugging on his jaw. “What if he’s not able to play any longer?” Silence answered him and Castiel repressed an aggravated groan as he realized what a self-centered jerk the question made him sound like. “I mean, he seems to derive so much of his sense of worth on whether or not he takes the field. What will he do if he can’t play?”

“Oh,” said a startled Jimmy. “I thought...never mind...I don’t know, Cassie. You gotta know more than I do. What have the doctor’s said?”

“Nothing to me,” muttered Castiel. “Talking to him, it’s damn obvious he has a concussion. He’s certainly going to be on the DL for at least a couple weeks.”

“Probably more like a month,” Jimmy said. “That’s been the standard in recent concussion cases. Given how late it is in the season, they might not bring him back at all.”

_Shit, no, what will I do without him? How will I—_

_No. Stop. I will do better._

There was a long silence between them.

_I will do better. I will. I must._

“I wish you were here, Jimmy,” he whispered.

“So do I, Cassie.”

“We’ll be... _I’ll_ be in Atlanta tomorrow...can I see you then?”

“That’d be...” Jimmy took a deep, loud breath, let it out in a _whoosh_. “That’d be awesome.”

_I’m doing better_

“Okay.” Castiel took a slow breath. “Okay, yeah. That’d be good. I’m gonna go, Jimmy. I don’t want to leave Dean alone too long.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

Hanging up, Castiel returned to Dean’s hospital room. Two nurses were in the room, one speaking with him softly, the other taking his vitals. Dean gave Castiel a vague, sweet smile that Castiel imagined resembled that which would grace Dean’s face first thing in the morning. Despite himself, Castiel smiled back. Dean’s eyes went wide and he lost the thread of what he was saying to the nurse.

“Mr. Winchester?” Ava glanced between the two men, brushing brown hair from her face.

“Sorry,” muttered Dean. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moved around half a silent word, his expression went slack, then tense, and his eyes opened again out of focus. “What...?”

“Get some rest,” said Ava gently to Dean, shooting Castiel an admonishing look. “We’ll talk later.”

“No autographs...” Dean mumbled, eyes closing again. He didn’t wake up again.

“No more excitement,” Ava reprimanded Castiel. She and the other nurse left, closing the door gently behind them.

Time passed slowly, but whenever Castiel’s thoughts wandered in dark directions he reminded himself that Dean was alright and would heal. He’d see Jimmy the next day. Even twelve hours ago, Castiel would have been alarmed, nervous, maybe angry at the prospect of seeing his brother. In light of Dean’s injury everything felt different. With his resolution to do better ringing in his ears, Castiel thought on Jimmy’s obvious concern, on Dean calling Castiel attractive, on the affection Castiel nursed for both of them. Impossible, selfish ideas continued to surface – _hands tracing over Castiel’s abs, hips, thighs; hot breath blowing on him from both sides; two sets of lips mouthing at Castiel’s shaft, his balls, the head of his cock, sucking at him; Jimmy nuzzling at his pubes, Dean nipping oh-so-gently at his foreskin_ – but Castiel distracted himself with his phone, reading through sports news, going through his e-mail, anything to make the endless minutes pass.

The click of the door opening startled Castiel more than it should have. He hopped to his feet as Jo stepped into the room, a tall man with chestnut hair curling about his face hard on her heels. Sam didn’t resemble his brother, the differences highlighted by the formal, finely cut suit that suggested that Sam had left for Colorado straight from work. Face tight with concern, Sam ignored Castiel and went to Dean’s side, gently taking one of his hands and glancing over the monitors as if the read outs communicated reassurance.

“Any news, Cas?” Jo asked.

“He woke up for a few minutes,” Castiel replied. “He seemed alert at first but he faded quickly.”

“Have they told you any of his test results?” Sam asked absently.

“No,” said Castiel. “I’m not authorized for that kind of information.” There was a pause; Sam brushed brown hair from Dean’s brow, yet matted with sweat from the helmet he’d worn during the game. Jo took her chair and sat on Dean’s other side, running a soothing hand along Dean’s arm. Standing awkwardly, Castiel watched them both, feeling an intruder on their family scene. “Maybe...” he murmured. Surprised, both turned towards Castiel and he looked askance in embarrassment. “Maybe I should go.”

“What?” said Jo, surprised.

“Why?” asked Sam, tilting his head in confusion.

“I don’t want to intrude on...” he trailed off, unsure how to describe his reservations.

“Wasn’t he happy to see you when he woke up?” said Jo as if she knew the answer. Castiel flushed and nodded.

_Yes, he was, though I can’t imagine why._

“You’re not intruding,” Sam continued. “You’re his friend. We appreciate you being here. Please, stay. I’ll authorize the hospital staff to answer your questions.”

Both immediately turned back to Dean as if the matter was settled and Castiel stood and stared another moment before sitting down again.

“Thank you.” Castiel was surprised by how moved he was by their simple words. Castiel had no right to this; Jimmy _should_ be there, but in his absence, Castiel could sit and keep them company.

“Thanks for giving my brother a chance,” Sam replied with a gentle, friendly smile. “I’d appreciate if you keep Jimmy in the loop, too.”

“I will,” vowed Castiel. Another surprise: he didn’t feel the least flicker of jealousy. Something had shifted between him and Jimmy, between him and Dean. He wasn’t sure what had changed, but he was glad for it. Concern for Dean ate at him, but every other selfish thought circled back to his new-found conviction.

_None of this would have happened if I had done better. Jimmy wouldn’t be gone. Dean wouldn’t be hurt. They deserve better. They deserve my best._

_I will do better._

It was a long night, but Castiel wouldn’t have spent it anywhere else if someone offered him the fucking Cy Young. At Dean’s bedside was where he belonged.

* * *

 “...the fall out of the raucous Rockies-Nationals series has been announced.”

Standing in the airport concourse, Castiel tried and failed to tune out the TV playing loudly in the airport bar. He wished he could fade into the background hustle and bustle of travelers. Flying solo on a standard commercial flight was strange now that he’d grown accustomed to taking team flights. There were people everywhere. The longer he waited for Jimmy, the more he felt like there was a spotlight on him. He should have worn a hoodie or a hat or something, anything to hide his appearance as not 20 feet from him the screen played the footage of him punching Jon Gray the day before. Maybe he should wait in the airline lounge.

“That was something, right? What was Cas Novak _thinking_?” laughed the first talking head.

“What everyone else who watched that game thought,” replied a second gruff commentator. “That Gray pegged Winchester in the head intentionally.”

“Come off it, no professional player would—”

Someone bumped his shoulder and Castiel stumbled forward a step; he caught a glimpse of someone in a Braves jersey striding away quickly, and the words “You punch like a girl, Novak!” reached him. He scowled but resisted the urge to seek revenge.

“—missioner Manfred agrees with you, Aaron, he’s handed down fines and suspensions liberally.” Castiel had turned his phone on post-flight to find he had a dozen new voicemail messages and more than double that number of texts. “Rockies Manager Walt Weiss was fined $25,000 for laying hands on Nationals catcher Dean Winchester during Tuesday night’s game. The pitch that instigated the first brawl – a fastball by Castiel Novak that hit Jose Reyes in the knee – has been ruled accidental.” He’d ignored all of the messages save those that he could assume related to Dean, not wanting to hear the verdict he now couldn’t avoid. “The same can’t be said for yesterday’s incident. The Commissioner has deemed Gray’s pitch an illegal attack on Winchester’s person, suspended Gray for 10 games and fined him $25,000.” Castiel felt a surge of vindicated relief. He cared surprisingly little what happened to him but Gray’s assault deserved punishment. Dean’s concussion wasn’t severe but he was on bed rest for two weeks pending reassessment. Odds were that he’d be out for the remainder of the season. “Castiel Novak has also received a fine and a 5 game suspension after his...enthusiastic...defense of his catcher.” Sam was staying with Dean in Colorado and tentatively planned on driving Dean cross-country to DC so that he’d not have the stress of flying. “Lesser penalties have been passed out to three other players on the Nationals and two on the Rockies. Nationals General Manager Anna Milton had this to say about the dramatic three game series.” Dean had woken up periodically before Castiel left, sometimes lucid, other times not. Watching him suffer had, minute by minute, driven every selfish thought from Castiel’s head. He no longer cared if Dean never caught for him again; all that mattered was Dean’s recovery.

“Of course, we don’t condone behavior like Novak’s,” Milton spoke in clipped tones in footage from a press conference, expression carefully blank. “It is for the Commissioner to punish infractions. We are gratified that MLB has recognized who bears primary responsibility for what occurred yesterday.”

The worst part of Castiel’s night had been when Dean woke up and mistaken Castiel for Jimmy. Dean’s tone was affectionate and uncertain. The comfort Dean could have derived from Jimmy’s presence was heartbreaking and for his sake Castiel let the confusion slip, let Dean believe Jimmy was there and hoped like hell that Dean would forget the entire exchange when he woke up again.

“She looks frustrated, doesn’t she?” one of the talking heads said with incongruous cheer.

“This is the second scandal for the Nationals in the space of two weeks. Rumors are flying that their players are out of control and team owner Ted Lerner has threatened that if the Nats don’t make the post-season there will be a management shake-up.”

Bullshit, there were no such rumors until these assholes started them.

“Milton is fighting for her job, then.”

“Hopefully, the scandal won’t follow them to Atlanta,” said another commentator, the lie obvious. The 24 hours news cycle _thrived_ on scandals.

“The four game series starts tonight and runs through the weekend,” explained another commentator. “The Braves and Nationals are neck and neck for lead of the National League East, so this should be a nail-biter! Speaking of the NL East, what’s the latest on the Phillies?”

“Good question! They—”

“You are _so_ out of it.” The laughing voice of his brother coming from behind him caused Castiel to jerk his head around. Despite the light words, Jimmy looked troubled, skin tight around his fatigued eyes, lips in a flat, pale line. A surge of emotions choked Castiel and, moving before he could think better of it, he closed the short distance between them and caught Jimmy in a rough embrace. Shock made his twin temporarily rigid against him, and then Jimmy slouched into the contact and wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders.

A moment later, as if by mutual agreement, they broke apart. Castiel couldn’t bring himself to meet Jimmy’s eyes, couldn’t figure out what to say.

“Hey, uh, can I get an autograph?” A timid teenage girl wearing a Braves hat interrupted their awkward reunion and Jimmy immediately assumed a cheerful, false public face.

“Sure thing,” he said. “How about on the brim of your hat?” Jimmy produced a Sharpie from his pocket, ever prepared for the attention celebrity brought, and the girl excitedly offered him the hat. As soon as she left, waving her prize at her travel companions, three others took her place. It took another twenty minutes for them to escape the concourse to the relative calm of the parking lot.

They walked through the dim lot in silence, arrived at the car in silence, took their respective seats in silence, sat in silence as Jimmy started the car and the faint hum of the engine served only to punctuate the chasm that separated them.

_How can we have this little to talk about?_

Jimmy steered out of the lot in silence, followed the signs to the highway in silence. Bright sunlight heated the interior of the vehicle and the rush of the air conditioner kicking in was loud compared to the buzz of traffic passing around them.

_I was a fool to think seeing him again would fix anything._

_What did we use to talk about?_

_What do we have in common, other than baseball?_

“Dean asked for you,” Castiel said abruptly.

“Thanks for letting me talk to him last night,” replied Jimmy with heartfelt sincerity. “I, uh...” He laughed awkwardly, taking a hand from the wheel to brush long strands of dark hair from his face. “I’m sorry I’m so...blah...I hardly slept last night. He’s ok?”

“He will be,” Castiel said with more optimism than he felt. “It’s a bad concussion. While they were checking him out they discovered his knee is sprained. He hadn’t said anything to suggest his injury was that severe, there’s no way he can play with either injury. There’s no timeline on his return yet.” Jimmy laughed humorlessly, catching Castiel’s tone.

“Worried you’re going to have to find another catcher?”

Castiel stiffened at Jimmy’s accusatory tone. “You really think I’m such a—” He cut himself off with a ragged breath. _I have to do better._ “Dean is my friend and I’m worried about him. I know you think the worst of me now but—”

“No, you didn’t – I shouldn’t have – I’m sorry,” Jimmy blew out noisily. “I was out of line. Cassie, I...I suspected before last night, but now...I think I love him.”

The words were a dagger to Castiel’s chest for all that they weren’t a surprise. If Jimmy loved Dean, it really was over between Castiel and his brother. There was nowhere to go from there, no place for a third person. After Dean’s behavior when he confused the brothers, Castiel had no doubt about the depth of Dean’s feelings for Jimmy. He chanced a glance towards Jimmy but his brother’s clear blue gaze was fixed on the road, his scruffy profile silhouetted against the driver’s side window. Castiel tore his eyes away to stare outside, losing himself in watching the blur of the Atlanta suburbs as they sped by.

“You’re suspended for the duration of this series, right?” Jimmy asked. Castiel nodded before realizing Jimmy probably couldn’t see, so he murmured agreement. “Maybe you could stay with me? See my house? We could hang out a bit?”

“That’s a bad idea,” said Castiel harshly. Staying in Jimmy’s house would drive him crazy, all the distracting, tempting whispers that plagued him screaming desire for his brother, desire for Dean, desire for the three of them together. _Because what’s more taboo than loving my brother? Loving my brother_ and _his boyfriend._

_Holy fucking hell am I in love with Dean?_

A vision of Dean getting hit – it had been less than 24 hours before, but it felt like a fucking lifetime of anxiety and sitting bedside and talking quietly with Jo and Sam – assaulted Castiel. His chest clenched, his breath hitched, worry and guilt flooded him. For an instant the memory of Dean sprawled bonelessly on the ground flickered in his mind’s eye. Castiel imagined Dean replaced by an unconscious Jimmy and tears flooded his eyes. He’d not have felt worse if it had been his brother.

_It’s not just about baseball. It’s not just about pitching and catching. It’s not just about Jimmy, or wanting what – who – my brother has. It’s not just about sexual attraction. It’s about both of them, about the three of us, about Jimmy loving Dean as he once loved me – as he still loves me? About my feeling the same. About Dean feeling...what, exactly? He said I was hot, he said—_

“Cassie?”

“Huh?” Jimmy’s troubled voice pulled Castiel from his introspection. They were circling an exit ramp, trees making an attractive screen between the highway and a residential neighborhood.

“I asked...never mind, if you don’t want to, it’s all good.” Jimmy’s voice was thick with the same false cheer he’d worn like a mask for the fans at the airport.

“What did you ask?” Jimmy didn’t answer, pretending to be absorbed in checking if it was safe to turn left, though there wasn’t another car in sight as they navigated down winding streets lined with large homes on ample, green-lawned plots. “I’m sorry Jimmy, I zoned out. I’m not trying to be difficult, I didn’t hear you.”

There was a strained pause. Castiel’s heart sped up as he tried to imagine what Jimmy might have asked that troubled him so much that he wouldn’t repeat it.

“Why?” Jimmy whispered. He swallowed and tried again. “Why won’t you even consider staying with me?”

Anger boiled incandescent for a moment. How _dare_ Jimmy confront _Castiel_ about staying when Jimmy was the one who left? He quashed his temper before it could escape into the open. In its place a litany of excuses sprang up like weeds after a rainstorm. _It will look suspicious, I should stay with my teammates, we’re on opposing teams, I don’t have my own transportation._ He opened his mouth to spew a line of bullshit and nothing came out. Clamping his lips shut again, he took a breath and tried again.

_The truth. I need to do better._

“I can’t trust myself around you.”

Jimmy slammed on the brakes; Castiel’s body jerked forward, the seatbelt digging into his shoulder and waist. Heavy breathing was audible over the whoosh of the air conditioner. Alarmed, Castiel turned and caught a glimpse of Jimmy’s panicked expression before his brother schooled his face back to a smiling mask.

“Uh, we’re here,” Jimmy said. He flicked on a turn signal and steered into the short, paved driveway of an attractive, understated brick house trimmed in blue. The property was modest; the grounds featured several shaped evergreen bushes and an expanse of green grass. Other houses crowded in on all sides. There was nothing to suggest that someone wealthy or renowned lived there, no protective fence as at their home in Washington DC.

“No, Jimmy. I need to go to the hotel.”

The garage door opened at the press of a button, Jimmy steered the car in, and Castiel’s nerves ratcheted up. He’d told his brother the literal truth. He _couldn’t_ do this right now. He was too tired, too on edge, too concerned about Dean. He was too lonely and too jealous and too selfish to be around his brother.

Something indecipherable passed through Jimmy’s lips. The garage door automatically closed behind them, plunging the garage into darkness, impenetrable after the brightness of the day. Jitters had Castiel shaking his leg nervously. Blinking to clear phantom glares from his vision, Castiel turned towards Jimmy and could barely make him out, his hands yet clutching the steering wheel as he stared blankly ahead of him. Jimmy’s lips shaped around an unknown word; he closed his eyes and a tear trailed down his cheek. Castiel’s breath hissed out; slapping the button on his seatbelt, he shucked it and twisted in his chair, reaching out and cupping Jimmy’s cheek with his hand. Jimmy’s eyes flew open and he turned to stare at Castiel, two dark pools swimming with tears in the shadowed room.

“Please, Cassie,” Jimmy whispered. “I’m stressed as hell and worried about Dean and even if he were here I’m forbidden from seeing him and I’ve missed you – fuck have I missed you. I want my brother back.”

“I _don’t_ ,” snapped Castiel.

“Wha—” Shock slackened Jimmy’s expression and another tear fell free. Jimmy’s pain seared Castiel; he jerked his hands from Jimmy’s face as if the hot flesh burned him.

“I don’t want my _brother_ , I want...” Castiel took a shuddering breath. _If I don’t explain, he’ll never understand why I can’t do this. He’ll never understand that I’m trying to do better. He needs to know that – I need him to know that._ “Jimmy, I want everything that we were to each other but I can’t have that any more. I get that. What you and Dean have is special and I—” _And God, I want it for myself, for all three of us, so fucking badly._ Jimmy stared at him, eyes growing wider. Castiel couldn’t look any longer; he tore his gaze away and stared at the wall before him, mounted with household tools and gardening implements. “I’m not getting in the way of that. So _please_ , Jimmy, I’m fucking _begging_ you, take me to the hotel – we’re staying at the Ramada near the stadium.”

There was the click of a seatbelt, the clunk of the gearshift being moved, and Castiel dared to release a relieved breath. Jimmy listened to him, Jimmy was going to take the car back out of the garage, Castiel was going to pass this test...

Warm, soft lips brushed against the side of Castiel’s face; a lock of hair swept over Castiel’s cheek, and hesitant arms wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders. Jimmy ghosted kisses along the curve of Castiel’s neck, suckling the sensitive skin of his clavicle.

_A month ago he didn’t even want me to touch him. A month ago he walked out after I asked him to stay. Now he wants me? Now he’s trapped me. I can’t leave even though I want to._

_Of course, I don’t_ really _want to._

“Please, Cassie,” repeated Jimmy, hot breath against Castiel’s ear, driving a shiver through Castiel’s body and an unwelcome surge of heat through his gut and cock.

_I don’t understand._

“What about Dean?” Castiel asked. Jimmy’s embrace spasmed and tightened and he nuzzled against Castiel’s shoulder.

“I haven’t talked to him about it yet but I think he’ll be on board,” murmured Jimmy.

_What. The. Fuck._

“You should see how he reacts when I joke about you and I messing around.”

There were no words. Castiel sat rigid, Jimmy’s hand bunched in his shirt.

“I didn’t want to suggest to him that I was serious until I had a chance to speak with you.”

“Speak to me about _what_?” Castiel managed.

_There’s no way this is what it sounds like. Jimmy is furious with me, he hasn’t forgiven me, and why should he? We’ve still hardly spoken, he still thinks I’m selfish, he still thinks I’m an ass._

“About Dean,” said Jimmy.

“ _What_ about Dean?”

“What if you weren’t in the way?”

“What if you just told me clearly what the fuck you’re talking about?” countered Castiel angrily. Jimmy chuckled and loosened his embrace, pulling Castiel around so that they were facing each other.

“ _Us_ , Cassie,” Jimmy explained. “I want to tell Dean about us.”

“Why?” asked Castiel, stunned.

_Jimmy bent over the bed, legs spread wide, moaning and rolling his ass back as he waited in desperate impatience for Castiel to fill him. Dean handcuffed to a chair, watching, mouth agape, cock leaking, hips thrusting at air. Castiel hadn’t decided yet if he was going to let Dean come that night, only knew that he was going to make him watch everything that Castiel did to Jimmy. Maybe, when Jimmy was thoroughly fucked out, Castiel would have his brother give their boyfriend a blow job. Maybe._

“I know that look,” grinned Jimmy. All sense of Jimmy’s shame and pain were gone, vanished so quickly that Castiel had whiplash. This entire conversation was beyond him. He needed to get out of the car, needed to get fresh air. The car smelled like Jimmy, enveloping him, making it impossible to think. Reaching behind him, Castiel jerked the door open and stumbled out, pulling away from Jimmy’s touch. Straightening, his eyes accustomed to the dim light in the garage, he looked for the button to raise the garage door and spotted it beside the entry that presumably led into the rest of the house. He crossed to it, hit it, and bolted for the exit, ignoring when Jimmy called after him. Before he could get outside, Jimmy caught up to him and grabbed his wrist.

“Cassie – Cassie, wait,” pleaded Jimmy. Castiel tore his arm away and fled down the driveway, drawing in desperate pulls of air. Jimmy followed on his heels.

“What the fuck, Jimmy?” There was an edge of hysteria to Castiel’s voice that he hated. He couldn’t restrain it, though. He’d spent so long telling himself to move on, telling himself he could not have what he wanted, telling himself he didn’t _deserve_ what he wanted, his tired, stressed, anxious mind refused to comprehend what Jimmy was saying. Jimmy couldn’t mean it, he couldn’t be implying what Castiel thought he was implying. Stopping at the end of the driveway, he looked down the road but saw nothing to tell him where he was or where he might be able to go to escape and get some privacy, some time to collect himself. “You and Dean – I mean – your relationship doesn’t involve me. I want to fix things with you – I want the chance to prove that I’ve listened to what you’ve told me and changed, or tried to change, and I don’t want to mess up my friendship with Dean, either. You’re both important to me.”

_You’re the two most important people in the world._

The thought froze him in place, breathing hard. Agitated, Jimmy circled to face him but mercifully did not lay a hand on him again. Castiel would shatter if Jimmy showed him affection now.

“Alright, I’ve handled this badly, I’m sorry,” Jimmy said desperately. “It’s been a shit day, a shit night, I should have realized...but I was so fucking _scared_ when I got your texts, I thought something must have happened to you and Jesus it was the worst damn feeling in the world. And then it wasn’t you, it was Dean, and that wasn’t better, it was just as shit. My whole life it’s been you. There was never anyone but you. And then you were gone and I thought that emptiness would never go away until you showed up at that fucking burger place with Dean and he fit into that hole. Or that’s what I thought, I thought he was a replacement, but that’s wrong – he didn’t fix it, that place in me is still empty but he carved out a new space for himself alongside yours. I can’t imagine life without him. It’s you, Cassie, it’s you _and_ it’s Dean and I didn’t realize it until last night. You’re both important to me. And I started thinking – what if I didn’t have to pick? But I got carried away. You asked me to take you to your hotel and I brought you here anyway and I’m sorry for that – but I’m not sorry for feeling this way and I’m not sorry for wanting to talk to you.”

“Now who is being selfish?” Castiel tried to sound angry but he couldn’t, all he managed was bitter. “What, having Dean isn’t enough?” _Would just Dean be enough for me?_ “He loves you.” _It was so obvious when he thought I was you, when his concussion destroyed his inhibitions_. “There’s no place for me.” His heart raced, half-formed fantasies refusing to be dismissed.

“But that hasn’t stopped you from dreaming of it, has it?” There was a knowing gleam in Jimmy’s eye that made Castiel want to deck him.

_If my hand didn’t still ache from hitting Gray…_

“No, I—”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Jimmy grinned. “I know you – I _know_ you’ve thought about him, thought about us – do you picture he and I together? I can tell you how his lips feel around my cock, tell you how he tastes—”

_Dean flat on the bed, Jimmy hovering over him, each with the other’s cock in their mouth, the air filled with obscene slurps and the slap of flesh on flesh as they sucked each other off._

“Jimmy!”

_Slow down, Castiel told them, and they did, their faces each twisting with the effort of self-restraint._

“—tell you how rough his skin is and the noises he makes when I twist and suck his nipples—”

_I don’t know which of them I want to fuck more._

“Stop!”

_Make sure they’re both prepped, that way I don’t have to choose. I could have them both – I could watch them enjoy each other._

“—you wouldn’t have to imagine how firm that gorgeous ass is, I can tell you how it feels, tell you how fucking _strong_ he is and how _gorgeous_ that strength is when he falls the fuck apart.”

_Jimmy’s hips bucking as he fucked into Dean, his voice strained as he begged for Castiel to fill his body as he filled Dean’s._

“Why are you—?”

 _Stop, stop, fuck I’ve_ got _to stop! I’ve got to stop him!_

“Because I want both of you, fuck, I think about it all the time – because I think you want both of us, because Dean doesn’t know that sometimes he moans your name in his sleep.”

Every protest shattered, the world went still in an instant that could have lasted a lifetime. Bright sunlight filtered through the scattered trees, the narrow streets empty were of cars in the middle of the work day. Attractive homes lined the avenue, lawns manicured, owners who would be horrified if they knew that Castiel wanted, more than anything, to share a relationship with his brother and his catcher and let all the fucking rules that said they couldn’t be damned.

Castiel didn’t remember moving, couldn’t fathom when his thoughts translated to action; he came to himself with his hands on Jimmy’s cheeks, his lips harsh on his brothers, kissing him with all the longing and desperation and desire that nine months apart had burdened him with.

“Yes,” Castiel growled against Jimmy’s mouth. Jimmy tried to draw away but Castiel firmed his grip, nipped hard at Jimmy’s bottom lip, forcing a yelp from him. The yelp softened into a moan as Castiel used his tongue to caress and soothe, delved into Jimmy’s mouth to taste him. Kissing Jimmy was different than he remembered, pierced him through with devastatingly good heat, his flavor muskier and darker. The way Jimmy lunged into him was also new; Jimmy met Castiel’s tongue with his own, forced his way into Castiel’s mouth, lapped aggressively at the inside of Castiel’s cheeks, his tongue and palette. Encouraging him, Castiel pulled Jimmy into the kiss; Jimmy’s hands grabbed Castiel’s hips and dragged their bodies together, lean planes matching as perfectly as ever, every inch of hard flesh mirrored.

“Fuck have I missed you,” breathed Castiel when Jimmy broke the kiss off.

“Dean tastes like whiskey even when he hasn’t been drinking,” Jimmy murmured. “It’s fucking awe—” Castiel interrupted him with another kiss, trying to convince himself he wasn’t chasing the flavor of Dean on Jimmy’s lips. He was hot all over, his cock growing hard in his jeans. The urge to rut against his brother was strong, to chase that feeling and amplify it, to see how hard he’d have to press their hips together before he could feel Jimmy come, before he could force a climax from his brother without unbuttoning his pants.

Loud honking startled Castiel badly. He tried to jump away from Jimmy, dropping his hands to his sides, but his brother refused to let him go, instead glaring death at the large van and the offended woman scowling at them from the driver’s seat.

“Maybe we should go inside,” suggested Jimmy, expression and tone suddenly shy. “Unless you still want to go back to your hotel…?”

The woman honked at them again as she drove away and Jimmy stuck his tongue out at the back of the car. He was fucking irresistible. Castiel leaned in to suck at Jimmy’s tongue, prompting an inaudible growl that Castiel could feel down to his toes.

“I’ll stay,” Castiel said. _I will always stay for you, Jimmy. No one but you, no one but Dean._ He leaned in for the merest brush of lips against lips, as wonderful in its tenderness as the most ardent of their kisses. “But we can’t do more than what we’ve already done. I won’t risk hurting Dean in pursuit of a few minutes of immediate gratification.”

“Oh, I’m ‘immediate gratification,’ huh?” Jimmy laughed in the face of Castiel’s scowl. “Sam is going to bring Dean to DC, right?” Castiel nodded. “We’re leaving for the West Coast after this home stand, but I might be able to swing through DC after that, I think we have an off-day. Failing that, there’s a Braves/Nationals series sometime in early September.” Jimmy finally released his hold on Castiel’s hips and slipped their hands together, intertwining their fingers. Together, they walked to Jimmy’s front door.

_Unbelievable._

_How did this even happen?_

Happiness barely entered into Castiel’s thoughts, he was still too amazed, too hot and hard, but anticipation already buzzed around the edges of his consciousness.

_What if...?_

_There’s no way to know until Dean heals, until we’re all in DC and we can talk._

_He might say no_.

_...he might say yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I ever mentioned that I hate amnesia stories? I mean, if it's done interestingly, sure, but if it's "omg every blow to the head causes amnesia!" it makes me crazy. So, I couldn't resist poking a little fun at the trope. :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Bobby hit the pause button and turned to Dean expectantly. Grimacing, Dean shook his head. Faint, lingering pain from his concussion caused his vision to fuzz in and out of focus. He tried not to wince and betray himself. “What do you want me to say, Bobby? You got eyes.”

“Yeah I do, and they’re lookin’ at you, idjit,” Bobby scowled. “Whaddaya think?”

“You know what I think – Gallagher stinks worse than day old shit, Bass could give glaciers a run for their money in more ways than one, Henriksen is hurting and his loathing for Cas fucks up his ability to catch effectively, Lafitte would be on the DL if he weren’t working bullpen, and you’re shit out of options,” Dean shrugged. “You know, since you won’t let me come back.” He tried and failed not to sound pissed that he’d been sidelined. He was better. Or as much better as he was going to be. “Cas’ll have to figure it out on his own.”

“ ‘Cept he hasn’t been on his own, has he?” said Bobby knowingly. Dean gave him an innocent smile. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I’ve seen him checking his phone when he thinks no one is lookin’, even during games, and I’ve seen how his strategies change afterwards – change to be suspiciously like games plans you and he have been executing all season.”

“Come off it, Bobby, why would either of us do that?” That was _exactly_ what they’d been doing: Dean watching the games at home and sending Cas notes between innings. When Bass was catching, Dean didn’t have to, but when it was Gallagher? Cas might as well have no catcher at all when that idiot was behind the plate.

“That’s what I was wondering,” Bobby gave Dean an assessing look, “since if you’re helping Novak there’s no need to keep it secret.” Flushing, Dean averted his gaze, staring at the paused TV monitor as if the still image of Castiel mid-pitch held the answer to life’s great mysteries.

_Like ‘why does Jimmy like me?’ or ‘where are the missing socks?’ or ‘what is Douche Bag’s real name?’_

“I mean, loads of guys sit on the bench when they’re on the DL, yet you’ve stayed away from the stadium...” Bobby said leadingly.

“I’d just be in the way,” muttered Dean. Bobby snorted. “We’ve got six guys on the DL. If all of us sat on the bench now that we’ve got the [40 man roster](http://www.mlbdailydish.com/2011/9/4/2400827/mlb-roster-rules-40-man-roster) called up, we’d be in each other laps.”

“Yeah, well, you’re more useful than fucking Tanner. We could actually _use_ you on the bench.”

“I’d rather be on the field,” Dean reitereated for the umpteenth time. As soon as Dean had been released from the hospital, he’d started pestering Bobby about his return and had gotten no satisfactory answers. The disgruntled look on Bobby’s face now was part and parcel of that; Dean knew the truth – that the team was better off with him hurt, that he’d overstayed his welcome, that he was a hindrance in their efforts to make the post season despite the games he’d helped Cas win. He didn’t want to hear Bobby say any of that, but he did want to hear the truth: that he wouldn’t be called back up, that he’d be quietly retired having never played another game. If only his fucking knee had held out. If it had just been a concussion, he’d be back on the field already.

_Way to lie to yourself. Milton and Turner were just looking for an excuse to get me off the field, and Gray’s pitch gave it to them._

The past few weeks had passed agonizingly slowly. Dean watched each game repeatedly, glad he wasn’t there to blow the Nationals shot, wishing he was there to support his team. He hadn’t seen any of his fellow players, he hadn’t seen Jimmy, he hadn’t seen _anyone_ except for Jo and Charlie and Bobby. Only texts and phone calls with his boyfriend kept him sane. At least if he was truly done for the season – done forever – he would be _permitted_ to see Jimmy again. While he waited in limbo to know if he would be coming back, they still had to be apart, even though the Braves and Jimmy were due into at Washington Dulles within the hour. If Dean was done for the season, he could see Jimmy that night. If he wasn’t, he’d have to wait at least a month – longer, if either team made the play-offs. At this point, the Braves prospects looked grim – they’d had one hell of a shit August – but the Nationals were in the thick of the pennant race.

Dean missed Jimmy so much that grief swamped him every time he thought about the other man.

It was surprisingly similar to the way he felt each time he forced himself to face the prospect that he’d never again step foot on a baseball diamond while wearing catchers gear.

It was surprisingly similar to the way he felt when he imagined no longer squatting behind home plate, staring down Cas from 60 feet away.

The silence stretched out uncomfortably, Bobby’s expression unreadable.

“But since that’s not going to happen...” Dean glowered, praying that Bobby would contradict him, terrified that he wouldn’t, incapable of waiting to hear the answer. Instead, he grabbed the remote and hit play again.

“...and that’s strike three,” said the familiar, smooth voice of commentator Josie Sands.

“It’s like we’re watching a different pitcher than earlier in the game, isn’t it?” Cain said good-naturedly as the next batter came up. Cas’ last start had been three days prior against the Mets in New York, and Bobby had called Dean in to review the footage together. Dean had already watched the game three times, talking it over with Cas, but Bobby didn’t know that.

“Yeah, now he looks like a pitcher who doesn’t stink,” Josie agreed. “If he keeps playing this well, the Nationals have a chance to hold on to their division lead. If he doesn’t – if he plays like he did in the first few innings – the team’ll be taking the bus home after their last game on October 2nd.”

“...and a high fly ball for David Wright, an easy catch for Milligan, and that’s the game! Another complete game win for Novak. That puts him at 16 for the season – probably too late in the season for him to get to 20 wins now, right?”

“Unless something shakes up the rotation he’s only got 5 games left before the post-season, so...no, I’d say he doesn’t have a prayer,” said Josie.

“It’s not hopeless, but—”

Dean hit the ‘stop’ button and the VCR faded to a black screen, clicking loudly as the tape stopped play back. Bobby had to be the only son of a bitch on the planet who still used a VCR for this shit.

Throwing the remote onto the desk with a clatter, Dean turned towards the door, unable to bring himself to stay longer. He knew he could help Cas. He also knew that in every other respect he was a detriment to the team. It was delusional for him to think he had a right to play, even though his head now rarely hurt, even though his knees were doing much better thanks to his two weeks off the field and one week of rehab.

“I think we’re about done here,” he said masking unhappiness beneath a gruff veneer.

“You’re catching Novak’s next start,” said Bobby.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you ‘round, Bob—” Dean choked as Bobby’s words processed. “ _What_?”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, boy, cause you can be damn stupid.” Bobby shook his head, tugged his cap off and ran a hand through his flattened hair. “And you’re lucky you’ve got friends who see shit more clearly than you do. Novak showed us the texts you’ve been sending him. Jo certified you’ve a clean bill of health. You’re off the DL effective for Wednesday night’s game.” As he spoke, Bobby retrieved the VCR remote and hit play. The tape played from where it had left off, footage showing Cas looking skyward in relief as the game ended. Bobby rewound it a few seconds.

“Bob—” Bobby held up a hand to cut Dean off and gestured for him to watch the screen. Dean frowned. There was nothing left to see, the game was over.

“…doesn’t have a prayer.”

“It’s not hopeless,” Cain sounded far more optimistic than Josie did. As usual. “But if the catching situation doesn’t improve, it will be difficult for the pitchers to play their best. Cas Novak simply isn’t the same player without Winchester behind the plate.”

“Seems to me that the Nationals have to do some simple mathematics,” Josie said, her tone unusually warm with agreement. “Will they win more games thanks to Winchester’s play behind the plate or will they lose more as a result of his shit play _at_ the plate? He’s been eligible to come off the DL since the 30th, but so far there’s been no word on a schedule for his return.”

“With the expansion to 40 man rosters, this seems like a no-brainer,” said Cain. The camera view shifted from footage of the two teams shaking hands at the end of the game to show Josie and Cain sitting in the commentator booth, the gorgeous red-head wearing her usual bored expression, Cain’s thick beard and long hair causing him to resemble a hobo rather than one of the most respected announcers in baseball. “Sure, Winchester is kind if a hitting disaster but he is demonstratively the best defensive catcher in the majors this season. With the quality of the Nationals pitching, they don’t have to score a lot to have a shot to win games. They can afford to sacrifice a run or two in the interest of improved defensive play.” As he was speaking, a playback of earlier in the game showed Gallagher dropping a ball that should have been an easy, inning-ending out. The Mets had gone on to score two runs that inning; Gallagher’s error had nearly cost the Nationals the game.

“You’re right,” Josie said begrudgingly.

Dean’s jaw dropped.

The screen flashed back to Cain and Josie. Cain was as shocked as Dean. Josie _never_ agreed with Cain. Their catty back and forth was part of what made them fun to listen to.

“Do you think—”

Bobby stopped the playback and gave Dean a smug smile.

“Hope you’re ready to go, ya idjit.”

Frightened by the hope that flared in his breast – _I get to play again, I get to be a catcher again, I’m good enough, I could help the Nationals win the pennant, I could help Cas win 20 games, I might get to wear a World Series ring_ – Dean nodded.

“As ready as I’ll ever be…”

* * *

_Cas (11:15 AM): Singer told me the good news. Congratulations, Dean. Are you available this evening? I’d like to go over the game plan for the 7 th with you. _

_Dean (11:17 AM): Sounds good. Meet you at the stadium we can talk about it during this afternoons game?_

Dean’s heart pounded happily, nervously, at the prospect. A text from Jimmy an hour earlier had confirmed his safe landing in Washington. The Braves had arrived at Nationals Park not long after. As per Milton’s standing orders, Dean hadn’t gone to see Jimmy even though he profoundly wished to. However, the longer he lingered in the stadium, the more likely they could contrive to meet accidentally. Perhaps Jo or Cas could help bring something like that about? It’d be nice to see Cas, for that matter. He missed both brothers more than he could bring himself to admit. At least Cas had visited him in the hospital a couple times.

_Cas (11:19 AM): I was thinking tonight at my place. 9 work for you?_

_Dean (11:20 AM): Why?_

_Dean (11:20 AM): I mean sure that works sounds awesome but why not do it at the stadium?_

_Cas (11:21 AM): What, don’t want to see me outside of work?_

Dean started to type out a protest in reply, “ _No I wouldn’t mind…_ ” It was far from the truth: _actually that sounds awesome and it’s been so long since I’ve seen Jimmy and you look just like him and maybe I don’t trust myself_ would have been a more accurate, but less socially acceptable, response. Before he could send his answer, another text came through.

_Cas (11:22 AM): Singer said I had to take an off day._

_Cas (11:22 AM): Or, rather, he said ‘if I see you in the stadium today I’m locking you in the storage closet.’_

Memories of making out with Jimmy in a darkened storage room swamped Dean’s brain, except now Cas was there too, Cas was encouraging them, praising them, jerking off while watching them…he swallowed hard. He felt like a fricken horny teenager. _Cas doesn’t know – there’s no way he could know._ It hadn’t been long since he’d gotten laid – it was less than a month since he’d last since Jimmy – yet merely thinking about being in Jimmy’s presence was enough to get him hard. Adding Cas to the mix only made him horny faster. He refused to think about what that meant. His physical response to Castiel was growing frequent enough that Dean felt like an unfaithful asshole for picturing his boyfriend’s _brother_ that way.

_Dean (11:24 AM): Okay sure sounds good see you then._

Dean was an adult and a professional. He could keep it together and do his fucking job for the night, even if it meant being alone with Cas.

 _Does it count as being unfaithful if I always, always,_ always, _picture Jimmy there when I imagine being touched, being kissed, being fucked by Cas?_

_Maybe it doesn’t count as being unfaithful but it sure as shit makes me a sick son of a bitch._

For about the zillionth time since he met Cas, since he met Jimmy, Dean reflected on how absolutely fricken _screwed_ he was.

_I don’t deserve either one of them._

* * *

For no obvious reason, traffic was wretched that night. The cab Dean called to take him to Cas’ house was more than half an hour late and took an hour to cross the scant miles between Jo’s apartment and the house the twins had bought in the Maryland suburbs. Dean spent the time irritated, texting Cas his apologies for the delay, researching cars. With John’s debts paid off, by next year he should be able to afford a vehicle that wasn’t shit, should be able to afford to park it in whichever city he ended up in. He tried not to think about where that might be. There had yet to be a year of his life where he’d gone into the autumn with any idea where he’d be in the following spring. Uncertainty was a familiar feeling but it had never been welcome. This year it felt worse than ever. Dean wanted stability. He wanted a home. He wanted to stop crashing on Jo’s couch, wanted to stop spending winters with Sam, wanted a place to call his own. He wanted to stay with Jimmy in Atlanta, wanted to keep working with Cas in Washington. There was no way to know yet, though, since he hadn’t spoken to Jimmy about moving to Georgia nor had he been offered a contract for the following season in DC. Letting his thoughts dwell on it would drive him crazy. So instead, he used his phone to research cars and study up on the Braves expanded bench. He waited for his fucking cab and determinedly didn’t think about Jimmy or Cas, or Jimmy _and_ Cas.

It was after 9:30 when the cab finally dropped him in front of the fancy-ass gate that separated Cas’ house from the street. He rang the bell, feeling like an intruder. It was only his second time visiting the mansion. The lavish property was a stark reminder of the divide between the grunts of baseball and the superstars. Assuming he avoided injuries, Cas stood to earn a hundred million dollars or more during his years in the majors. Dean wouldn’t even retire with a positive net worth unless he could secure a job for the following season.

“Dean, is that you?”

The voice through the receiver crackled with distortion, but nonetheless he didn’t think he’d ever heard Cas so happy. His tone brought a smile to Dean’s face, though it did nothing for his nerves or his inappropriate thoughts.

“Who else would it be?” he answered.

With a buzz and the clank of gears, the gate slid open. Dean stepped through and trudged up the long driveway, the way lit by a floodlight that cast purple and blue shadows over the dark, landscaped yard. Behind him, the gate clanged as it shut again. To Dean’s surprise the front door remained shut as he approached, even though Cas had to be standing by it in order to have buzzed Dean in. He was left to knock, the sound dull against the thick hardwood.

The door jerked open so quickly that Dean punched air on the third strike. Bright light dazzled his vision, giving him a blurred view of the marble floors, white walls, and a lean, dark-haired body. Hands locked around his shoulders, pulled him inside; a body pressed him against the wall of the entrance foyer and lips crashed into his. Warmth flooded him, arousal curling hot through his veins, as he couldn’t help but kiss back.

“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean spluttered, blinking to clear his sight. The person before him resolved into clarity: beautiful blue eyes, pink lips locked in a smirk, cheeks peppered with stubble, and long brown hair. “ _Jimmy_ ,” he breathed. The smirk transformed into a grin. Dean wrapped an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and pulled him in for a second kiss, a third, lips hot on lips, hips grinding together, cock rapidly hardening. Jimmy’s arm snaked around Dean’s waist, pressed against the small of his back and held him close.

“Fuck have I missed you,” Jimmy huffed between kisses. “So much, Dean, so fucking much.”

“What are you—?”

A cough interrupted him, loud in the confined space, and Dean reluctantly pulled away from Jimmy. Cas stood in the hallway that led to the rest of the house, staring at them with wide eyes darkened with lust.

_No, that’s impossible, that has to be disgust – discomfort – annoyance – anything but—_

“We need to talk,” Cas said. Sure enough, he sounded pissed. Jimmy gave Dean a sheepish grin and shrugged, gesturing towards the interior of the house.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” muttered Dean, covertly adjusting his half-hard cock as soon as Cas turned around to lead the way. With a sniff, he realized something smelled delicious, the scent of fresh baking suffused the air.

Awkwardness hung heavily over the three of them when they arrived in the living room. Cas stiffly took a seat on one end of the leather couch, piercing gaze immediately turning to Dean and Jimmy. Jimmy slouched into the other end of the couch, draped his arms over the back, crossed his legs, but despite his apparent ease his smile was fixed and unnatural. Swallowing, Dean took a place on the loveseat. He had one hell of a bad feeling about this. Had Jimmy figured out Dean’s interest in his twin? Had Cas figured it out? Theoretically he was there to talk about pitching and catching but given the tension in the air that was inconceivable. Questions raced through Dean’s mind; he settled back in his seat, then shifted to sit rigid instead, unable to get comfortable as unpleasant silence stretched out.

“So, anyone want a beer?” Jimmy said with false cheer.

“I think this is a conversation we should all be sober for,” said Castiel, shaking his head.

“One beer isn’t going to…” he trailed off as he caught Cas’ stern expression. With a frustrated cluck, Jimmy leapt to his feet, leaking frazzled, nervous energy. “I’ll get the cookies.” He fled the room. Staring at the fuzzy rug beneath the coffee table, Dean leaned forward, set his elbows on his knees and his hands on his forehead. He could feel Cas’ piercing gaze on him, as intense as when Cas was pitching with the bases loaded and no outs.

“Uh…sorry,” Dean muttered, flushed with guilt for no reason he could pinpoint.

“Why?”

“Dunno,” Dean huffed out a breath. Something clattered in the kitchen, Jimmy loudly snapped a curse, and every muscle in Dean’s shoulders and back tensed. “But I clearly fucked something up.” He chanced a glance at Castiel, whose head was quirked to one side, expression unreadable.

“Why would you assume that?”

_Because I always fuck up everything good that comes my way. Not that many good things have come my way, but guaranteed when they do I blow it._

Dean shook his head, unable to bring himself to speak.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Dean,” Jimmy said as he strode back into the room. He set a plate stacked with fresh chocolate chip cookies down on the table. They smelled fucking divine, and despite the nerves twisting Dean’s stomach he reached out. Cas stretched out a hand at the same time, their skin brushed and a tingle surged up Dean’s arm. _Ridiculous, stupid, fuck up…_ He grabbed a cookie and jerked his hand away, sprawling back in his chair so that he was as far from the twins as he could get. Taking an aggressive bite of his cookie, finding meager enjoyment in the delicious flavor that flooded his mouth, Dean took in Cas’ angry frown and Jimmy’s confusion. He scowled at them both.

“If not that, then what the fuck is going on here?” he asked. “Cause I know it’s not game prep.”

“No, it’s not,” agreed Cas.

“Man, this is way harder than I thought it would be,” Jimmy mumbled. A chill swept over Dean. _He’s going to dump me, I know it, I—_

“Jimmy and I are in love,” Cas said. Jimmy choked on a bite of his cookie.

Dean looked up, stared at each of them, blinked in stunned silence. _He can’t mean…_ “Of course you are,” he said slowly. _Don’t jump to conclusions, don’t make assumptions._ “You’re brothers.”

“You’ve misunderstood me.” Castiel’s eyes bored into him. Dean desperately wanted to look away but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Heart racing, he forced himself to swallow a mouthful of cookie that had suddenly go flavorless. “As brothers, we love each other, but that’s different from being _in_ love.”

“He’s saying that he and I have sex, Dean.” Jimmy squeaked out a profoundly uncomfortable laugh. “Loud, vigorous sex on, like, every fucking surface in this house.”

Full stop.

Every thought in Dean’s head coalesced into a single exclamation that burst from him. “What the fuck?”

“It’s true.” Castiel nodded. His fingers drummed on the armrest, and Dean realized how nervous Cas was, how nervous both twins were.

“ _What the fuck_? So you’re cheating on me?” Dean’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. “With your _brother_?”

“No!” exclaimed Jimmy, distress in every feature. “Fuck, no, that’s not what I meant at all! I told you, right at the beginning, that I’d been dumped. Cassie dumped me.”

“I thought you meant he didn’t want you as his catcher anymore!”

_But I hoped…_

“Well, that too. The two have always gone hand in hand,” Castiel said. _What, the fucking and the ball catching? Yeah, I bet they went hand in hand – and in mouth – and in ass._ It was like covering home base, watching a runner coming straight at Dean on a collision course, knowing they weren’t going to stop until they fucking ran him over. Dean couldn’t look away. He caught every flicker of emotion as Cas glanced at his brother, gave Jimmy a shy smile. There was an unfamiliar tenderness to Cas’ expression, matched when Jimmy returned the smile, and then both brothers looked towards Dean.

 _I wish he’d look at me that way_. Dean wasn’t sure which one of them he meant.

_This is goodbye – they’ve reconciled and it’s over. At least I can still be Cas’ catcher._

“Well, I guess I should get going,” Dean snapped, standing abruptly. His knee ached in protest at the quick movement despite the support provided by his knee brace.

_I shouldn’t even be Cas’ catcher any more. I’m done. There’s nothing left._

Anger and pain warred for dominance in Dean’s thoughts: anger at Jimmy for hooking up with Dean on the rebound, anger at himself for falling for it, pain that he was losing the best thing he’d ever had. He’d been such an idiot, gotten his hopes up _again_. How could he not have known better? Jimmy quailed, the tentative happiness on his face falling away when Dean met his eyes before turning away and leaving the room.

“Cassie…” Dean heard Jimmy say as Dean headed down the hall towards the front door. The name hit him like a blow. Dean was storming out and Jimmy couldn’t even be bothered to pursue him. Jimmy only had concern for Cas. _Of course he’s not worried about_ me _in that moment. I’m not the one Jimmy cares about. I’m not the one Jimmy loves. How could he?_

_Stupid, stupid, so damn stupid. This was always coming. I risked everything for him._

“Dean!”

 _And the worst fucking part is that I’d do it again in a heartbeat. The son of a bitch even kissed me goodbye when I got here and I’d_ still _do it again. God, this hurts_.

“Wait, Dean.”

Footsteps came hurriedly up the hall behind Dean as he reached the entrance foyer. Rounding, he snapped, “fuck off, Jim—” He broke off. Jimmy hadn’t followed him. Cas had. “Sorry, Cas, I gotta go. I’ll see you at the stadium tomorrow. We can talk about the lineup then.”

“What do you think is happening here?” Cas asked. His voice was steady and icily calm, his eyes glittering with anger as he stood in the arch that connected the hallway to the entryway. Dean was disgustingly reminded of earlier, when Cas had stood in the same place and watched Jimmy kiss Dean with unmistakable lust in eyes.

_Unmistakable my ass. This whole fucking thing has been a mistake._

“I think my boyfriend is dumping me so that he can go back to getting reamed in the ass by his brother,” snarled Dean.

_Why am I still standing here? Why am I even trying to talk to him?_

He seized the doorknob, but he couldn’t compel himself to throw the door open and storm out.

_I don’t want to leave. I don’t want this – whatever it is – to be over._

“That doesn’t bother you?” There was something about Cas’ demeanor that locked Dean in place. His anger – at Cas, at himself – surged. Releasing the doorknob, he crowded into Cas’ personal space, masking pain with fury.

“Fuck, no, of course not, I’m totally fucking cool with getting dumped. It’s fucking fantastic, you should try it sometime,” Dean shouted, spittle hitting Cas in the face.

Castiel didn’t even flinch.

“It doesn’t bother you that Jimmy and I share a sexual relationship?”

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?” Dean threw up his hands in disgust. “What, you want my fucking permission now? You selfish son of a bitch.” The spell that had kept him in the room was broken. Dean whirled and stalked to the door, slamming it open with a clatter. “Fuck whoever you want, Cas. It has nothing to do with me.”

_God, I want it to have everything to do with me, with all three of us._

Not waiting for a reply, Dean rushed out into the night.

“Wait!”

_No fucking way._

“Dean, please!”

 _No more hoping. No more optimism. My relationship is over. My career is over. I’m fucking_ over _._

“I’m not breaking up with you!”

Dean froze before the closed gate that separated the Novaks from the outside world.

“That’s not the way this works, Jimmy.” Dean forced himself to speak calmly around heavy, angry breathes. “You don’t get to date me on the side. If you want to be with Cas…if you’re in love with Cas…you don’t get to have us both.”

“Why not?” asked Jimmy, desperation thick in the short statement.

_Don’t turn around – don’t turn around – don’t—_

Dean, fucking idiot that he was, glanced over his shoulder. Jimmy stood a few feet from him, breathing hard, leaning over with his hands on his knees, staring at Dean with a devilishly earnest, wide-eyed expression.

“Why can’t I have you both?” Jimmy asked again when Dean failed to answer.

Snorting, Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know which one of us you really want.”

“No, you don’t, because you won’t calm down for two fricken minutes and _listen to us_ ,” said Jimmy. “The incest…knowing that Cassie and I have been together…you’re really cool with that?”

_Fuck, I am so fucking cool with that. I can’t think of anything hotter._

_But I don’t want to think about it._

“You, too? How many times do I have to say this shit? _I don’t care who you two fuck_. Even if it’s each other. What the fuck difference does it make to me? It has nothing to do with me!”

“It has _everything_ to do with you, Dean! Why do you think we asked you to join us tonight?” demanded Jimmy. Something powerful and righteous replaced the Jimmy’s earnestness and it was captivating and beautiful.

“I don’t know.” Dean wanted to rage. He should want to leave, but he didn’t. He wanted to stay. Damn him, he still had a tendril of hope, though he couldn’t grasp what there was left to hope for, not in the face of the knowledge that all that Jimmy and Cas wanted was each other. The swirl of conflicting emotions defeated him. His tone was plaintive as he unhappily turned away from the gate, turned to face Jimmy standing before him. Cas stood silhouetted in the open doorway of his home.

“You don’t know…” Jimmy straightened, raked a hand through his long hair, burst out a loud breath. “Of course you don’t know,” he muttered distractedly. “Fuck, I suck at this. I should have…Dean, I love you.”

Full stop.

 _Again_.

“What the fuck?” Dean asked weakly. There was no fricken way he could process this fricken evening. “What the fuck, Jimmy? You can’t just – you don’t just – _what the fuck_?”

“Look, I get it, I’m handling this like shit, but I love you, and I love Cassie, and I just thought…I mean…whenever I talk about him, the way you react…I thought…I _hoped_ —” Jimmy floundered, entreaty in every word. Dean had no fricken clue what he was being begged to do. Cas’ profile had disappeared from the entryway but Dean couldn’t see where he’d gone, couldn’t see anything except Jimmy struggling before him, couldn’t think of anything to say except:

“What. The. Fuck.”

Clever repartee. Dean Winchester’s forte.

“You suck at this.” There was a smirk evident in Cas’ tone as he came up beside his brother. “Dean, Jimmy loves you.”

“And…?”

“And he’s pretty sure you love him.”

“And…?”

“And Jimmy and I love each other.”

“ _And_ …?”

“And why does a relationship have to be between only two people, Dean?” demanded Jimmy, as if it were the most obvious question in the world.

Dean’s jaw dropped.

“What the fuck?” he whispered. “…Cas?”

“I…care about you…a lot,” Cas said. His gaze focused on the ground, he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

 _He’s…he’s shy, he’s nervous, he’s fucking_ adorable.

Licking his lips, Dean took in Jimmy’s uncertainty, Cas’ anxiety, and understanding struck him. _They’ve talked about this. They want each other. They want me. And they’re fucking terrified that I won’t feel the same way._ The entire conversation, the entire evening, suddenly made sense.

“I care about Jimmy.” Dean was embarrassed that he couldn’t seem to speak above a whisper. His heart pounded in his chest. _Don’t hope, don’t hope, don’t hope_. “I care about both of you.” Cas looked up to face him and Dean warmed through to see the tender gaze that had earlier been directed at Jimmy now focused on him. Moistening his lips again, Dean closed the distance between himself and Cas, leaned in and brushed a tentative kiss over Cas’ mouth. Faint warmth pooled within him; beside him, Jimmy hissed an intake of breath. The warmth faded as Dean’s nerves flared but when he looked over at his boyfriend – _is that still a thing?_ – he recognized the naked desire writ large on Jimmy’s face. Nerves were subsumed by the desire curled that through Dean’s gut.

_Hands, someone’s hands, peeling the clothing from Dean’s body; hands competing for a place on Dean’s chin as his face is turned first one way into a heated kiss, then another way into a very different but equally hot kiss; hands tracing over his skin and—_

Hands curled powerfully around Dean’s shoulders, slammed him back against the closed gate, and Cas fucking _dominated_ his mouth. A tongue demanded entry between Dean’s lips and he parted them willingly, allowed himself to be swept away. Kissing Cas was nothing like kissing Jimmy. Dean allowed his eyes to slip shut in surrender and tried to keep up as Cas tasted him, worked his tongue in and out of Dean’s mouth, scarce leaving time for breath.

“Yeah,” murmured Jimmy. “Fuck yeah…just like that…”

Dean whimpered, the weakness in his knees for once unrelated to his lingering injuries. Only Cas’ firm grip on his shoulders, pressing him against the solid gate, kept Dean from crumpling to the ground until Cas drew away and growled, “House. Now.”

“What about…?” Dean trailed off as he realized Jimmy was palming his crotch, staring at him and Cas.

_Abort, abort, keep your fucking mouth shut, Winchester. Don’t question it, don’t fuck it up, enjoy it for as long as it lasts, until they figure out what a shit-tastic idea this is, until they realize they only want each other._

“What is it, Dean?” Cas panted but he stopped and stepped away, giving Dean breathing room. He caught himself, barely, before he ended up prostrate on the driveway.

“What…what is this? What are we doing?” Dean asked.

“Pretty sure the term is _menage à trois_ ,” supplied Jimmy eagerly.

“Right but…” Taking a deep breath to calm his arousal and concern, Dean locked his knees, stood up straight, looked from one gorgeous twin to the other as both watched him with identical expressions, heads quirked to the side with uncertainty. _Fuck, they’re perfect, they’re both fucking perfect. Why am I questioning this?_

 _Because I_ need _to know what’s going on. If this isn’t what I think this is…I can’t take that chance. I can’t stand to hurt like that._

 _But, fuck, do I want_ …

“The three of us?” he asked, matching their uncertainty. They both nodded. “Just sex?” They both shook their heads. “So, like, an actual…a _relationship_ …involving all of us?” Nods. “You’d _both_ be…we’d _all_ be boyfriends?” Nods, accompanied by wide smiles, teeth brilliant white in the dark night. “How will that work, exactly?”

“I was hoping it would start by my watching Jimmy fuck your brains out,” supplied Cas, expression neutral, tone flat, as if he _hadn’t_ just fucking _rocked Dean’s entire fricken world_.

“Right,” said Dean faintly. “Yeah. That sounds…that sounds pretty good.” _Breathe, Winchester._ “That sounds fucking amazing.” Matched grins, matched mischievously twinkling eyes, matched bodies that Dean really, _really_ hoped would both end up pressed against his. _Is it safe to hope for that? Can I finally let myself…?_ “Let’s do that.”

* * *

“Fuck,” Dean breathed. “Fuck, Jimmy… _fuck_ …”

Three fingers slid slowly into Dean’s lubricated hole, spreading him as he hadn’t been opened in fucking _years_ , and if he could get a hand on his cock he thought he could come just from that. No touching allowed, though. Cas had forbidden both Dean or Jimmy to touch Dean’s aching erection. The directive, the automatic assertion of control by the pitcher, should not be so fricken hot.

“Very eloquent, Dean.” Cas lounged in an armchair near the bed watching them both, not moving, not touching himself despite the obvious tent in his pants.

“Screw you,” Dean managed, his hips rocking back, chasing Jimmy’s fingers as he drew back out. His injured knee ached but there was no way he was wearing a brace during sex, even if he was on his hands and knees.

“Maybe later,” replied Cas flatly.

Everything about this was _unbelievably_ fricken hot.

Jimmy thrust back into Dean hard, spreading his fingers apart as he did to further the stretch as he prepared Dean’s ass. Dean groaned and pressed his face and shoulders harder against the mattress to raise his hips further, to invite Jimmy to give him more.

“God _damn_ , Dean, I love the sounds you make.” Heat came to rest against Dean’s back as Jimmy leaned down and ghosted the words hot over Dean’s ear. Jimmy’s fingers worked more quickly, in and out, in and out. Dean rocked back into his hand and forward into the bed, causing the headboard to creak against the wall.

“Just fuck me already,” Dean gasped. He wasn’t prepped enough and he couldn’t care less. He’d wanted Jimmy for so long, had waited so long to be with him, and the reality was so much better than he’d dreamed – not just because he was being touched, but because Cas was there too. Guilt and self-repression Dean hadn’t realized he was nursing were gone. He was uninhibited in a way that eluded him his entire life. This was what he wanted and even if it proved to be just this once, he got to have it.

“Brother, may I?” asked Jimmy desperately. Heat flared in Dean’s gut; his cock bucked so hard it smeared pre-come wet and hot on his belly.

“Not yet,” Cas growled. With a burst of energy, Cas rose and crossed to the bed, knelt beside Dean. His proximity, his heat, the faint scent of sweat on his skin, all were overwhelming and Dean slid his eyes shut, whimpering and moaning softly at the continued stimulation to his hole. Jimmy’s lips worked at Dean’s shoulder and someone’s fingers – Cas’, they had to be Cas’, right? – carded through Dean’s disheveled hair.

“You don’t know how often I’ve imagined you like this,” murmured Cas. Teeth tugged at Dean’s earlobe, nipped hard enough that he yelped. A finger brushed his prostate, the pain melted into pleasure as Dean melted into the mattress. Fuck needing a touch on his cock; if this kept up he was going to come regardless. “Before every game, every _fucking_ game, I pictured you, Dean: on your knees sucking me down, your tight asshole stretching around my cock, your voice fucking wrecked from moaning, your eyes…” The bodies around him shifted until Dean had no idea who was touching him where, except that Jimmy yet thrust unrelenting fingers into Dean’s body. “I got off imagining you so many times. I want to see your eyes, Dean.” Obeying was an effort; tears pooled in the corners of Dean’s eyes and obscured his vision of Cas stripping down. He blinked to clear his sight. He wanted to see Cas, wanted to see everything, wanted to map every difference between his twin lovers – his two boyfriends.

“Please, Cas,” he whispered urgently.

“What do you want?” Cas lay down beside him on the bed, lean body stretched out. His skin was paler than Jimmy’s, his shoulders less muscular, his nipples a more delicate pink.

 _I want to touch you, I want to taste you, I want you to fuck me, I want both of you to fuck my fucking brains out. What_ don’t _I want? I want everything. Do I get to have this? Am I allowed to ask?_

“Please…” He gasped as Jimmy brushed his prostate again, hips grinding up into Jimmy’s hand, muscles clenching. How could he be this close to coming? His whole body felt superheated, super sensitive. He _needed_ , fuck, he needed _so fucking much._

“Cas…!” Jimmy pleaded as he bit back a groan.

“Tell me, Dean,” ordered Cas. Their eyes locked, Cas’ dark with desire, somehow lending Dean strength and stability even as the part of him not addled with desperation thought _I do that to him, he looks that way because he wants me, how the fuck is that possible, how can either of them want me, how can both of them want me?_

“Let Jimmy… _please_ let Jimmy…” Cas’ stern frown made it clear nothing would happen if Dean couldn’t find the words to express himself. “Fuck me – let him fuck me – I want you both to fuck me. Please, Cas…”

“Good, Dean,” Cas fricken _purred_ , his roughened voice shivering down Dean’s back like a touch. “Very good.”

Something must have passed between the brothers because abruptly Jimmy drew back from Dean and withdrew his pulsing fingers. Dean shuddered at the loss of contact and Cas reached out and skimmed a hand gently along the curve of Dean’s back, ruffled Dean’s hair. The touch was soothing, grounding, and Dean was embarrassed by how much he enjoyed it. When he’d had sex in the past it had never been like this. He’d never really been in a relationship before, though.

Behind him, Dean listened to Jimmy’s preparations – a condom wrapper was torn open, a squirt of lube squelched, hasty breaths and gasps punctuated unknown movements. Anticipation curled through Dean, tensed him, scant counteracted by Cas’ calming strokes along Dean’s spine and head. After what felt like a fricken lifetime, a hand settled on one ass cheek and blunt pressure pushed at his pucker. Unable to repress another shudder, Dean rocked back into the touch, but all he succeeded at doing was causing Jimmy’s cock to slide down Dean’s crack and bump his balls. Jimmy whimpered unhappily.

“Dean,” said Cas, making the name a reprimand. Dean echoed Jimmy’s whimper and forced himself to be still. He’d never realized he could _want_ this much, so urgent that it scared him. Every nerve in his body fired at once, the heat of desire and need trailed to every extremity. He wasn’t sure how the fuck his _toes_ could want, what they wanted, but they did. Dean wanted everything, everywhere. A gasp burst from him as the pressure on his hole returned, Jimmy’s fingers flexed and relaxed against his ass as Dean’s body resisted – resisted – and then opened to Jimmy abruptly, spreading and allowing Jimmy to embed within him in one smooth, quick thrust.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Jimmy burst out, stopping when his hips came to rest against Dean’s ass. His hands dug into the firm flesh of Dean’s hips. Pleasure coursed through Dean in a burst only to fade as Jimmy stilled; only Cas’ continued ministrations reminded Dean to hold still and wait, kept Dean from rocking backwards and forwards to force Jimmy into motion. A moment that felt like an hour stretched out and then Jimmy drew in a loud, ragged breath, pivoted his hips back and thrust in hard.

“ _Yes_!” Dean couldn’t help but crow, his hands clenching at the blanket he rested atop.

“You like that, Dean?” asked Jimmy, drawing back and thrusting again. Skin slapped on skin, Jimmy’s cock passed over Dean’s prostate, and bliss threatened to white out the room. The only answer he could muster was a groan that hitched and stuttered when Jimmy picked up a rhythm and rocked in and out of Dean’s body.

“Harder,” Dean demanded. Jimmy’s pace didn’t change. “Fuck me _harder_!”

“Will you come if he does?” Cas asked. _Probably_ , Dean thought, but he couldn’t form the word. Being fucked after wanting Jimmy for so many months felt too awesome, the arousal obvious in Cas’ blown pupils and gravelly voice was too alluring. Cas’ scowl communicated his irritation that Dean didn’t answer, and with effort he managed a frantic nod. Jimmy hadn’t stopped and Dean teetered on the edge. A few hard strokes placing prolonged, glorious pressure on Dean’s prostate was all he’d need to get off at, even without a finger on his desperately hard cock.

“If you come while he’s inside you, I won’t fuck you,” said Cas. A moan that closely resembled a sob punched out of Dean and he flushed bright with mortification. It shouldn’t fricken _matter_ , until this evening he didn’t even know that being with Cas was an option and he’d wanted Jimmy for so long, yet in mere hours it had become essential that he be good enough for Jimmy _and_ Cas. He’d worked so hard to be the catcher Cas deserved, worked so hard to help Cas perform his best, he couldn’t let his pitcher down now. Nodding to show that he understood what Cas was implying, Dean struggled to take long, deep breaths despite the way his chest was pressed into the mattress, despite the way Jimmy was pounding him to the accompaniment of increasingly vocal breaths, despite the peak of his pleasure just out of reach. Cas watched him avidly, chest rising and falling with increasing rapidity, eyes growing wider, cheeks becoming flushed, as Jimmy fucked Dean hard and steady. Despite Cas’ obviously growing desire, the hand that stroked up and down Dean’s back remained incongruously gentle.

“I want you so badly,” whispered Cas, just for Dean’s ears. Dean moaned and clenched around the cock within him, forcing a pained groan from Jimmy, who bucked into him harder than he had and nearly sent Dean over the edge despite his efforts at self-restraint. Dean’s fingers fumbled across the mattress until he found Cas’ other arm. The powerful grip of Cas’ pitching hand enveloped Dean’s fist, stabilized him, lent him strength, and he relaxed back into Jimmy’s hold on his hips. He could do this. He had to. He _had_ to feel both twins, had to feel Cas.

Something of Dean’s serenity must have communicated, for in a deep, rough voice, Cas said, “Fuck him harder.” With a grunt, Jimmy obeyed. Dean could do nothing but gasp every time Jimmy bottomed out, nothing but squeeze Cas’ hand and ride the high as wave after wave of pleasure threatened to drown him.

“Shit.” Jimmy sounded euphoric. “So good, so fucking good, I’m gonna—” He broke off, snapped his hips forward as he jerked Dean’s hips back. The bed rocked beneath them, Dean’s knee flared with pain that was a bizarre godsend since it was kept him from coming, and he heard more than felt Jimmy’s climax. “Dean…oh, Dean…”

The stillness that followed stretched out so long that Dean broke it when he began to tremble with need. Despite Cas’ continued supportive touches, he was no longer looking at Dean; his focus, hungry and hot, was entirely on his brother. For a moment, Dean thought that desperate expression would translate into desperate action, thought Castiel might grab Jimmy and fuck him stupid.

_Cas pulling Jimmy from within Dean’s body, jerking him off the bed, bending him over, thrusting into him…_

Dean moaned at the mental image, tensed and pulsed and nearly fucking came as he thought on how many times the brothers must have fucked on this bed in the past. _Jimmy said they’d had sex all over the house. Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ_.

Just as Dean had imagined, Cas moved suddenly, causing the bed to rock, leaving Dean empty as Cas’ hand left his back, their twined fingers separated. Jimmy’s softening cock came free of Dean’s body with a wet sound and bereft whimpers from Jimmy and Dean. The emptiness only lasted moments, though. The mattress bobbed and shifted behind him and then a thick, hard cock thrust into Dean in one sharp motion. Back arching, Dean cried out and pressed desperately back. Cas didn’t even pause when he bottomed out, he drew out fast and thrust in hard again, again.

“So fucking hot,” Cas growled.

“Holy shit, Cas,” exclaimed Jimmy. All Dean could do was moan as Cas fucked him roughly, his knee aching, the rough cloth of Cas’ pants rubbing at his sensitive skin on every thrust, his body afire.

_Can’t come yet – can’t…can’t stop it, fuck, I have to…_

“Come for me, Dean,” Cas commanded. Dean _tried_ , tried to relax, tried to let it happen, but it was too much, he felt too good under Cas’ unrelenting attentions. “Dean—”

“Touch me!” Dean interrupted, hoping like hell the words were intelligible. His face was mashed against the mattress, his mouth dry after so many desperate gasps, his thoughts washed in bright bliss. “Please, I need you to—” A hand wrapped around Dean’s cock – Jimmy’s hand, it must be, because both of Cas’ hands were digging into Dean’s hips – and Dean was fucking _done_. His mouth went slack, his limbs limp, as his climax subsumed every thought, liquefied every muscle. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Dean slumped forward, crying out in distress as Cas’ cock slipped free of his holy. Cas gasped in shock, released Dean’s hips, and a moment later hot wetness landed with a splatter on Dean’s back, Cas’ come pooling at his spine and making a hot trail as it flowed over his side and dripped onto the bed.

Replete and satisfied, Dean rolled to his side on the bed, blinking happily at a beaming Jimmy.

“Heya. Jimmy,” Dean mumbled, reaching out to trace a finger over Jimmy’s cheek, brushing hair from his sweaty brow. Jimmy chased the touch with his lips, tilted his head back and away to ghost a kiss over Dean’s hand. The bed bounced as Cas moved and something rough rubbed at the come oozing down his back. “Leave it.”

“It’ll make a mess on the blanket,” grumbled Cas.

“Please?” asked Dean. He wasn’t sure why it mattered, but it did. He’d had Jimmy’s cock in his mouth, swallowed Jimmy’s release, and that had marked him; Cas’ come on his back marked him again. He didn’t want to wipe that away, didn’t want to remove the evidence that what they’d done that night was real. The touch to his back moved away and then weight and heat settled behind him, Cas’ chest pressed to Dean’s back. Cas’ arm wrapped around Dean’s waist and pulled them together, trapping the come between them. The smile on Jimmy’s face morphed into something tender and precious and the twin wiggled over the mattress to bring his face close to Dean’s. They kissed gently, lazily; one of Jimmy’s arms trailed over Dean’s side, reached past him to touch the bare skin of Cas’ back. Cas shuddered, sighed, and relaxed against Dean.

Blinking, his attention drifting drowsily, Dean allowed the pleasure of the moment to encompass him. It seemed inconceivable that the past couple hours had happened, but Cas’ weight behind him, Jimmy’s before him, were uncontestable. He wrapped an arm around Jimmy’s hips to pull him close, hooked one of Cas’ ankles with one leg, worked the other leg between Jimmy’s.

“I love you,” Jimmy breathed in Dean’s ear. “I love both of you so much. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back to Atlanta.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Cas voice was a promise that rumbled pleasantly against Dean’s skin. Dean yawned and his eyes to slipped shut. “Even if we have to wait until the end of the season, we’ll do this again – we’ll be together. We…I mean…if that’s what you both want.”

“Fuck, yeah.” Jimmy sounded fervent even though he was clearly only half awake. Contentment left Dean lax, satisfied.

_Best fucking night of my life. Literally and figuratively._

“Dean?”

He half-opened his eyes to a blurry vision of Jimmy looking at him uncertainly.

“What’s the question?” the words slurred together.

“Do you want to do this again?” Was that actually _nervousness_ in Cas’ voice? What’d _Cas_ have to be nervous about? Cas was fuckin’ perfect, both twins were.

“More’n anything,” Dean said sleepily, letting his eyes close again. “ ‘s fuckin’ awesome.”

Identical happy sighs surrounded him. Impossibly comforted, impossibly cared for, Dean drifted to sleep, all worries forgotten. However long it lasted, even if it were only for one day, Dean had gotten everything he wanted for one blissfully perfect evening.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“The Nationals aren’t playing it safe, that’s for sure.” Cain’s smooth voice echoed loudly through the locker room, volume turned up so high that Castiel could hear it clearly through the locked bathroom door.

“They brought this on themselves with their play over the past month,” said Josie snidely. “Turner’s management strategy for the play-off run has been incomprehensible – switching out Walker to start Kubrick at first, dropping Fitzgerald to the minors and giving Tanner the starts, bringing Winchester back from the DL to catch in place of Gallagher, putting Shurley in left field after Collins went down with an injury. If I didn’t know better I’d think they were _trying_ to fail.”

Castiel had imagined how Dean would look on his knees many times but nothing matched the reality. They’d had four starts together since Dean had come off the DL, and though they’d talked about Dean providing Castiel’s pre-game BJ they’d agreed that the risk wasn’t worth the reward. Today was different, though. Castiel _needed_ stress relief, and staring down into Dean’s gorgeous green eyes as Dean licked and lapped at the leaking head of Castiel’s cock was an exceptional way to unwind.

_I never thought anyone would look better prostrate on my feet than Jimmy does but damn if Dean isn’t damn close. Dean might be even hotter than Jimmy._

_I’ve got the two best catchers in the fucking game._

“I wouldn’t go that far, Josie. It’s not the Nationals’ fault that the Diamond Backs were on fire last week.”

Jimmy’s voice was audible to Castiel as a faint, indecipherable hum from where Dean held his phone up to his ear. Dean’s other hand fondled Castiel’s balls, rubbing at the sensitive skin a little too gently as Jimmy coached Dean on Castiel’s favorite ways to be touched and fondled and sucked off.

“Regardless, there’s no denying that tonight’s game is do-or-die for the Nationals as well as for team management, who likely will find themselves unemployed if the Nationals don’t win. There are no more chances; if they want the pennant, they have to perform now or they won’t have to bother performing again until next spring. With the Mets victory this afternoon, a Nationals loss will force a play-off game and the odds won’t be in their favor. The Nationals are only 7 and 12 against the Mets this season and they’ve yet to win a game against deGrom, the probable Mets starter if a one-off is forced.”

Try as he might to be quiet, Castiel couldn’t repress a gasp as Dean swallowed him down in one go. Even in his wildest fantasies Castiel hadn’t dared credit Dean with so little gag reflex or so much skill at deep throating _._ Grabbing the back of Dean’s head, Castiel held him in place and ground his cock into the heat of Dean’s mouth, buried himself in sultry bliss. A whispered expletive inadequately expressed the pleasure blazing through Castiel’s body and mind.

“And the Nationals wouldn’t have Cas Novak for that game, who has been by far their most reliable starter despite his rough September.”

The words pierced through his pleasure and brought Castiel crashing down to earth. The last thing he needed was a reminder of the expectations resting on his shoulders that afternoon.

_Last game of the season and it’s all on me. If I blow it today, the season is over. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—_

Dean pulled off Castiel’s cock with a wet smack of his lips. “Ignore those assholes,” Dean advised. His sex-roughened voice set Castiel’s pulse pounding.

“Do you think he’s spent, though? He’s already pitched more innings than in any previous season in his quest for 20 wins and the Cy Young Award.”

“You’ve got this shit,” Dean continued, speaking low to obscure from anyone passing by outside the door that they were sharing the enclosed bathroom stall. Unable to find words, Castiel shook his head. It wasn’t that he didn’t think he could pitch adequately – he knew he could – but everyone wanted to make the post-season and now it was all down to Castiel. He didn’t need the pregame coverage to remind him that this had been the most intense season of his career. He didn’t need the pregame coverage to remind him of the stakes resting on tonight. He didn’t need the pregame coverage to remind him that he had a chance at earning the highest award a pitcher could receive but likely wouldn’t be considered if he didn’t win that evening.

“Tonight will be the ultimate test of that. Working on [short rest](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_baseball_\(S\)#short_rest), stalled at 19 wins, this is Novak’s last chance to hit 20 for the year. The pressure is on him to—”

“Will you turn that shit down?” snarled Dean loud enough to ensure that he’d be audible outside of the bathroom, even over the volume of the telecast.

“Fuck you, Winchester,” someone bellowed back, identity obscured by distance and obstructions. Despite the retort, Josie and Cain’s smooth commentary faded until Castiel could hear the hum of speaking but could no longer make out the words.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Dean muttered, turning back to Castiel’s cock with a frown of concentration. Flooded with anxiety, Castiel’s erection had flagged. Looking up from the limp dick before him, Dean caught Castiel’s eye and quirked an eyebrow in a silent question.

“It’s okay,” Castiel sighed. “Don’t waste your fucking time.” Dean quirked his eyebrow even higher. _I have to do better. There’s no reason for me to be an ass to Dean. Dean didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who...he deserves to know what I’m thinking_. “I feel too shitty to get it up again.” Jimmy’s voice sounded loud but indistinct through the phone; Dean nodded and hit the button for the speaker phone. “Hello, Jimmy.”

“Hey, Cassie,” said Jimmy brightly. “The best way to tell those douche bags where to shove it is to ignore them, play your game, and not worry about the rest. Got it?”

“Even if we lose tonight, it’s not your fault,” Dean added.

“Bullshit,” snapped Castiel. “Of course it’s my fucking fault. I’m the pitcher.”

“Okay, sure, if we lose _tonight’s_ game, that _might_ be your fault, but you still won’t be the reason we don’t make the post-season,” Dean clarified. “Screwing this shit up was a team effort. Tonight is only one game, just like any other game. There isn’t a player in the lineup who hasn’t cost this team a game. I struck out in the ninth with the bases loaded in May. Talley dropped that pop fly last week. Tran had that game where he allowed 9 runs in two and two-thirds innings. We’ve lost 74 games this season, every one for a reason, and every one could be blamed for our current predicament.  If we win tonight, you own the glory, but we if lose you don’t own the blame.”

“Dean’s right,” Jimmy said. “So calm down and let the man suck your cock. He’s damn good at it.” The delicate flush darkening Dean’s tanned cheeks in response to the praise was adorable, Dean’s expectant, optimistic expression as he eyed Castiel’s soft cock was _hot_ , but neither was not enough to renew Castiel’s arousal.

“Thank you both.” Castiel tried to imbue his tone with the genuine warmth and happiness he felt towards his two catchers, but his nerves left him sounding cold and distant. “You’re right, of course.” _But I’ll still feel like shit if we lose._ “I’m going to go finish my pregame routine.” Dean looked hopeful, but Castiel shook his head and felt a surprising stab of guilt and sadness at Dean’s crestfallen expression. A fond smile painted Castiel’s face and Dean brightened.

 _Maybe…I_ am _doing better? Is it possible to change so quickly?_

_At least if our season ends today, it hastens how soon I can spend my entire off season with Dean and Jimmy. That’ll be fantastic._

The Braves had one game left to play, same as the Nationals, but unlike the Nationals the outcome of the Braves final game of the regular season was moot. They had been mathematically eliminated from the play offs over a week before. With that in mind, they’d discussed their options and agreed that Jimmy would spend the off season in Washington DC, leaving his house in Atlanta vacant, and that Dean would be their extended house guest. Publicly, the purpose of this was to help Castiel with his off-season training regimen. The house Jimmy and Castiel owned together had plenty of guest rooms to accommodate a visitor.

The king bed in Castiel’s bedroom didn’t have plenty of room for three adult, six-foot-tall men, but that hadn’t stopped them the one night they’d managed to spend together and wouldn’t stop them all winter. Behind the high fences that protected the mansion from the rest of the world, no one would ever know what they got up to.

“Talk to you after the game, bro,” Jimmy said. Castiel nodded, forgetting momentarily that Jimmy couldn’t see him. Hastily, he stowed his cock and furtively left the bathroom stall, leaving Dean to exit on his own some minutes later.

Without the barrier of the door, Castiel could once again hear the telecast clearly. The atmosphere in the locker room was tense. Each player handled the stress differently, and Castiel caught snatches of conversation over Josie and Cain discussing the Marlins lineup.

“They’ve got to watch out for Suzuki—”

 “—not fit, it fit _yesterday_ for fucks’ sake—”

“—do this, I can do this, I can do this.”

“We’ll show those cocksuckers—”

“—adjust your grip—”

“—Fernandez is hoping to play the role of[spoiler](http://thegalsgotgame.com/what-it-means-to-be-a-spoiler-in-baseball/)—”

At least they were playing the Marlins, who’d had a shit season. The Nationals had beaten them the previous day. They could do so again. Castiel retrieved his glove, adjusted his cup, tugged his cap onto his head and concentrated on slow, calming breaths. It was essential that he not absorb the prevailing stress.

The door to the locker room slammed shut and the TV went silent. All heads turned to see the source of disruption and found Turner standing by the door glaring, an expression that would have been aggressive on anyone else but, in Turner’s case, was his default.

“Gather ‘round,” he snapped. There was a rustle and clatter as everyone did so, the tak-tak-tak of cleats on poured concrete flooring. “Short and sweet. It’s just another game, assholes. So quit worrying. Go out there and play like you’ve played all season, and we’ll be fine.” Turner took a moment to scan the assembled team, meeting every gaze with a stern, determined, unphased expression. 40 pairs of eyes stared back at him. “Well, what’re you waiting for? Get to the dugout!”

The pregame went by in a blur. The sun was dazzlingly bright, belying the mild early October temperatures. It was a perfect afternoon for baseball. Castiel retreated to the bullpen to finish his warm up, Dean at his side. There was no question of Lafitte catching Castiel that day. Lafitte was competent but he wasn’t Dean. Castiel needed every moment of stability, security, and familiarity that he could seize. The stadium rattled from grass to rafters as 42,000 fans united to belt out _and the home of the brave_. The end of the national anthem was Castiel’s cue; he and Dean made their way across the outfield from the bullpen as some local politician threw out the ceremonial first pitch. The Nationals players ran out from the dugout to take their positions: Kubrick at first, Corbett at second, Talley at shortstop, Carey at third, and Spengler, Milligan and Shurley covering the outfield. Dean dropped into his squat behind home plate with deceptive ease, his long, loose uniform pants covering the brace he wore to support his knee. Castiel knew Dean was hurting; now that he was allowed to care about Dean, allowed to stare at him, he noticed all the little signs that Dean was playing through his injury.

_That’ll be another advantage of the season ending today. At least Dean will have some time to recover._

_But if don’t win today we won’t get a chance to at the World Series._

Castiel knew how much Dean wanted that opportunity. Everyone on the team was hungry for it, but none more so than Dean.

The umpire threw the game ball to Castiel, and he and Dean traded a few lazy warm up pitches – if 90 mile per hour fastballs could be considered lazy – before they were out of time, before the home plate umpire shouted “play ball!” and Ichiro Suzuki came out to bat leadoff.

From the first pitch, Castiel felt fantastic. Every ache and pain that a season of hard play had left him with faded to nothing. The sun warmed his muscles, his arm flowed forward and snapped back effortlessly, the mound was comfortingly solid beneath his feat, and Dean was a steady, heartening presence sixty feet away.

Ichiro went down in three pitches.

The next two batters were overmatched with equal ease and Castiel confidently left the field after a one-two-three first inning. Castiel didn’t bother watching the last pitch. He knew it was spot on. Walking back to the dugout, Dean trotted up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Holy shit, Cas,” he said excitedly. “You’re on fricken _fire_. That last pitch was so hard my hand is still tingling.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Castiel replied, rolling his eyes.

“Didn’t I say you had this? You’ve got this.”

Unfortunately, Fernandez pitched equally well. The top of the Nationals line up went down quickly, Milligan swearing so loudly it was audible from the dugout when he hit into a double play. Hardly any time at all passed before Castiel was jogging back out to the mound, buoyed by the cheers of the crowd.

“No-vak! No-vak!”

Pitching had rarely felt so effortless.

The second inning flew by, as did the third. The tension between innings and when the Nationals were at bat began to grow as the game progressed and neither team managed to post a run. Even the [President’s Race ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presidents_Race)wasn’t enough to break through and introduce an element of humor, though [Teddy Roosevelt](http://washington.nationals.mlb.com/was/fan_forum/presidents.jsp) certainly tried, tackling Thomas Jefferson and pretending to beat him up, enabling Herbert Hoover to steal an unexpected, unusual victory. Normally, the prevailing stress would have worn on Castiel, wound him tighter and tighter, but this game was different. Despite his pre-game jitters, nothing could shake his certainty that if they lost, it wouldn’t be because of him. As the fifth inning transitioned to the sixth, Castiel had only 64 pitches under his belt and the Marlins hadn’t managed a single hit. A buzz of anticipation began to stir noticeably. Castiel had yet to pitch a [no-hitter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No-hitter) in his career though he’d carried one to the eighth inning in his rookie year. Thus far, Castiel was doing even better: he was pitching a [perfect game](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perfect_game) through more than half the game. The mood in the dugout slowly transitioned from one of jittery nerves to one of determination. Fernandez was pitching well but he wasn’t unhittable: Talley had gotten on base twice, Dean had worked out a walk in the fifth, and only a phenomenal catch by Giancarlo Stanton had prevented Milligan from hitting a homerun.

“[Small ball](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Small_ball_\(baseball\)),” snapped Turner as the team prepared to bat in the bottom of the sixth. “You sons of bitches get on base any way you can and you move the batter forward if it’s the last fucking thing you do, you hear me?”

Despite the admonishment, the sixth went as the previous five had. The Nationals failed to put anything together, the Marlins went down one after the other as Castiel matched his career single game record of 13 strikeouts, and Castiel fought to maintain his focus. As much as he wanted the Nationals to break through against Fernandez, he hoped they didn’t put together a long inning. He didn’t think he could bear the tension of waiting twenty minutes or half an hour to take his turn on the mound again.

_Only 250 no hitters pitched in the past 115 years. Only 23 perfect games in the history of the game._

_200,000 games of professional baseball have been played in the United States and it’s only happened 23 times._

Perfect games happened so rarely that Castiel could name every pitcher who’d ever achieved one. He’d watched all eighteen of the games for which video existed, dating back to the 50s.

_Lee Richmond. John Ward. Cy Young. Addie Joss. Charlie Robertson. Don Larsen. Jim Bunning. Sandy Koufax. Catfish Hunter. Len Barker. Mike Witt. Tom Browning. Dennis Martinez. Kenny Rogers. David Wells. David Cone. Randy Johnson. Mark Buehrle. Dallas Braden. Roy Halladay. Philip Humber. Matt Cain. Felix Hernandez._

_Lee Richmond. John Ward. Cy Young…_

_…Cas Novak?_

Breathe. He just had to keep breathing.

“Yogi Berra,” muttered Dean, sitting beside Castiel on the bench after he hit into a [6-3](http://www.baseballscorecard.com/starting.htm) ground ball in the sixth. Beyond words, Castiel glanced at him and quirked an eyebrow in question. “Ron Hassey did it twice. Everyone’s heard of Jorge Posada and Buster Posey, but who the fuck knows who Robby Hammock is?” Castiel shook his head. He didn’t. “The best pitchers in the game throw perfect games – throw no-hitters. But the catchers? They can be anyone.”

“That’s not true,” Castiel said. “I’ve never heard of Robby Hammock but he must have done well by whoever he was catching for.”

“Randy Johnson,” Dean supplied. “I dunno – something tells me a ten time All Star, five time Cy Young winner who pitched both a no hitter and a perfect game coulda thrown like that if he had a fricken crash test dummy behind the plate.”

“Maybe Randy Johnson could have,” Castiel shrugged. “But I couldn’t. I’m glad it’s you, Dean. I need you.”

Stunned disbelief flashed across Dean’s face, faded into a shy, bemused smile that was far too private and precious for their public setting. Castiel resisted the urge to smile back. With the number of cameras on them, anyone could see. The last thing they needed was to get outed.

The roar of the crowd faded to a buzz in Castiel’s ears as the Nationals took the field for the top of the seventh inning. Palpable tension filled the air. The wind up of every pitch was met with silence; every strike announced by loud cheers; every call of ball was met with groans and shouts that the umpire needed a new set of eyes. Someone in the expensive seats behind home plate kept shouting “[no batter](http://www.heckledepot.com/batter-heckles/), no batter, no batter!” Each time a batter made contact with the ball, the crowd surged to their feet, collectively holding their breath, and each time the ball was caught or fielded cleanly the noise swelled so loudly that Castiel couldn’t ignore it. The first batter of the seventh went down swinging, guaranteeing that no matter what else happened, Castiel had set a personal strike out record.

_Another record I could set…only a handful of pitchers have ever struck out 18 in a game. Four more and I can join that list. I just need to…_

_Focus!_

The next batter came to the plate. Dean flashed for a fastball up and in. Castiel let fly, his 84th pitch, already thinking about what came next.

Breath hissed from his teeth as, with a resounding crack, Ozuna hit the shit out of the ball. Watching it sail towards the outfield, Castiel prayed for the first time in his career. He’d always thought faith in the almighty was a poor substitute for skill and practice, but with the game on the line, the season on the line, a no-hit perfect game on the line, Castiel had stretched skill and practice to their limit. What he needed now was luck. Turning, he watched the arc of the ball, watched all of his hopes come to rest on Adam Milligan. Dean was wrong that a dummy could substitute for any player during a game like this one. It took a team, it took every player stepping up and playing better than they ever had. The pitcher got credit for the win, got credit for the lack of hits, but at that moment it was all on Milligan.

_He’s not going to make it, he’s not going to make it, he’s not going to—_

With a leap, Milligan got a foot on the back wall padding, launched himself up impressively high, reached his glove over the fence and, barely, snagged the ball. He landed hard in the dirt of the warning track, stood to show the knees of his uniform covered in rich brown dirt and held up his glove, still containing the ball, to demonstrate to the umpires and the audience that he hadn’t dropped it.

The crowd went absolutely _insane_ , sound crashing in around Castiel all at once, bursting through him concussively as he sagged in relief. For a moment he could do nothing but stand, back to home plate, and breathe. It was near a minute before he remembered there were only two outs in the seventh so far, that he had another out to go. Fortunately, Bour went down easy on a pop-fly in foul territory.

He’d made it through another inning.

“Remind me to buy Milligan a present: a cake or one of those fruit bouquet things or…something,” Castiel said to Dean excitedly as they returned to the dugout.

“I think he’d prefer a pennant, maybe a new ring,” Dean grinned back.

“Working on it,” Castiel agreed. Milligan came running up, beaming broadly; Castiel caught him in a hug, he was so happy. Shocked, Milligan froze, and then hugged Castiel enthusiastically as those seated behind the Nationals dugout cheered and cat-called and congratulated them both.

The [seventh inning stretch](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seventh-inning_stretch) featured the most enthusiastic rendition of [Take Me Out to the Ball Game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSYWX7ZXd5I) that Castiel had ever heard. Even the players joined in, a euphoric Milligan accidentally smacking Walker in the face when he threw out his hand to count off “1, 2, 3 strikes, you’re out at the old ballgame!” Or, judging by the look they exchanged afterwards, perhaps it wasn’t accidental. The players settled down as “Dancing in the Streets” played, the Jumbotron showing fans taking to the aisles of the stadium to strut their stuff. Castiel didn’t even try to contain his smile, despite the startled looks he kept getting from his team mates. Did he really smile so infrequently that it was entirely unexpected?

Yeah – yeah, he probably did.

_I have to do better._

The second half of the seventh saw the bottom of the Nationals line up – Shurley batting eighth, Cas in the [nine-hole](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batting_order_\(baseball\)), then Talley wrapping up in the leadoff position.

“Don’t try to be a hero,” Singer advised as Castiel tugged his helmet on to take a few warm-up swings. “You’re doing plenty, last thing you need is to wear yourself out circling the bases. Let the rest of these louts carry their weight.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark!” someone called.

To everyone’s amazement, Shurley managed a walk, only the second Fernandez had allowed all game. No one looked more surprised than Shurley himself; he trotted to first base, swallowing nervously, eying second base as if it might rise up and attack him if he made an attempt to reach it. How a player with a .200 on base percentage had made it to the team remained a mystery to everyone, no matter how good his defensive play was. Even Dean got on base more frequently than Shurley did.

“Remember, Novak!” Singer’s gruff voice called after him as Castiel made his way to the batter’s box. Fernandez stared at him, eyes narrowed.

No one would expect Castiel to try for a hit. He was a shitty hitter; the expectation in this situation was that he’d attempt to [bunt](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bunt_\(baseball\)), costing the team an out but enabling Shurley to advance to second base. With that in mind, he briefly considered attempting a regular swing; indecision kept him paralyzed as the first pitch sailed by and an excited, surprisingly feminine voice behind the plate called strike one. His gaze flicked to the dugout; Singer was urgently [signaling at him](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AX1ggwR7Irc), patting his chest, his calf, fingering the visor of his hat, communicating silently that Castiel was expected to bunt. The second pitch was in the dirt, though, for ball one. Castiel squared up, holding the bat ready, but missed, earning strike two. Talley stared at him from the on deck circle; Singer glowered; the crowd cheered as Fernandez prepared for his next pitch; and Castiel struggled to stay relaxed at the plate. All they needed was one run. His pitching would take care of the rest as long as they scored one run.

On the next pitch, Castiel bullied the ball into a barely adequate bunt. It dribbled down the third base line, was fielded easily by Prado, and Castiel was out at first as expected, but Shurley easily pulled into second base. Castiel’s teammates patted him on the back supportively as he returned to the dugout.

Every pitched seemed to last a lifetime as Castiel watched Talley to see if he’d be able to cash in a run. As one strike turned to two, grew to a [full count](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Count_\(baseball\)) as Talley fouled off pitch after pitch, the fans grew rowdier and louder until rhythmic clapping rattled the stands during the tension that seemed to last forever between each of Fernandez’s pitches. Talley had seen nine pitches before he finally made contact that stayed in [fair territory](http://baseball-rules.com/fairfoul.htm). An earth-shattering roar accompanied the ball sailing to the outfield, shattered into dismayed groans as Suzuki easily paced the hit and caught it. Suddenly, the cheers were back. Puzzled, Castiel turned to the infield to see Shurley bolting at his maximum – fairly slow – speed for third base. It was damn risky to try to [tag up](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tag_up) at second to make third on a ball hit so shallowly, especially for a baserunner as mediocre as Chuck Shurley, but surprise worked in his favor and he pulled into third huffing for breath and beaming as if he’d already scored the winning run.

Two outs. Bottom of the seventh inning. Spengler up to bat.

Where Talley’s at-bat took a lifetime, Spengler’s was over in the blink of an eye. Fernandez, clearly nervous, paced the mound, wound up for his pitch, threw, and whacked Spengler in the arm. Rubbing at the offended location, Spengler wore a silly grin as he trotted to first base. Milligan was up next, the game resting on his shoulders for the second time in an inning. Nerves were starting to jangle beneath Castiel’s skin, the noise of the crowd causing his ears to ring. He needed to move, he needed to be back up to pitch, he needed it to be the top of the eighth. The waiting, the expectation, was killing him. Unable to watch any longer, he leapt to his feet and paced the length of the dugout. Singer quirked an eyebrow at him but said nothing; after two passes up and down the length of the small space and three pitches, the outcome of which Castiel determined as 2 and 1 by the response of the crowd, Dean hopped up and trailed behind him.

“2 and 2,” Dean muttered unnecessarily as the crowd cheered.

“Why can’t any of you assholes get a hit?” snapped Castiel, rounding on him. Dean froze, jaw dropping as if Castiel had smacked him in the face. “Sorry. Sorry. That was uncalled for. I know you’re trying, everyone is trying, but seriously – what the fuck?”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut, opened again, closed again; he shook his head and was spared coming up with an answer when the crowd groaned. Adam Milligan had struck out.

The top of the eighth passed in a blur. Gone were Dean’s open smiles as he took his position behind the plate. All business, Dean called the pitches, Castiel threw them to the best of his ability – _truly_ the best of his ability – and it seemed they’d hardly taken the field before they were returning to the dugout, the perfect game preserved.

_Holy shit. I might actually do this._

_Or not. Half of all no-hitters go up in smoke in the ninth. Tom Seaver lost his perfect game in the 9 th; so did Mussina, Scott Baker, Armando Galarraga, Yu Darvish just a couple years ago…just have to take it one pitch at a time._

The bottom of the eighth proved as transitory as the top of the eighth had been.

 _And if we don’t get a run, it won’t fucking matter. What_ does _happen to a no-hitter if we’re forced into extra innings?_

He couldn’t let himself think about that. He couldn’t think about history, or making the post-season, or pitching the game of his life, or all the ways that things could go wrong, or the fact that Dean hadn’t said a word to him since the end of the seventh inning.

He had to focus on one pitch at a time.

The Marlins had the bottom of their lineup coming to the plate in the ninth. So far, there had been 24 hitters up, 24 hitters retired. Now they had Realmuto, Hechavarria and, in all probability, a pinch hitter in place of Fernandez. The opposing pitcher was at 115 pitches; usually teams [played for the win on the road](http://www.answers.com/Q/What_is_meant_by_the_strategy_in_baseball_play_to_tie_at_home), played for the tie at home. Since it was the last game of the season, and the Marlins had nothing to play for, usually they’d [dog it](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dog%20it), but with the incentive of ruining the Nationals post-season chances, and now the added drive to prevent Castiel from pitching a perfect game, the Marlins were playing like it was fucking game seven of the World Series.

Realmuto took “play for the win” to heart, swinging for the rafters even though he only had six homeruns for the season. It made it easy to strike him out, bringing Castiel to 17 strike outs. He let out an explosive breath as Realmuto retreated to the dugout, swinging his bat at nothing with furious, disgruntled energy. Much to Castiel’s irritation, Hechavarria took a stance well inside the batter’s box, crowding home plate. Normally, Castiel would throw inside to knock him back, but in a game this high stakes he didn’t dare. If he accidentally hit Hechavarria while trying to discourage him, Hechavarria would reach first base and Castiel would lose the perfect game. He’d still stand the chance for the no-hitter, but having carried the perfect game nine and a third innings, Castiel was reluctant to sacrifice that now. Of course, Hechavarria knew that. Everyone on the Marlins knew that.

Castiel’s first pitch veered down and away and Castiel heard the call of ball one even though he was trying not to listen.

 _One pitch at a time_.

Hechavarria watched strike one sail by at 95 mph. Dean’s brow furrowed. He knew the problems with this at bat as well as Castiel. Nonetheless, he called for the third pitch inside. Hechavarria was too likely to get a hit while he hugged the plate, and it was shit play to let what would be their usual strategy change just because of the perfect game. It was easy to think that, though, and much hard to act accordingly. Still, Dean wouldn’t have called for the pitch if he didn’t trust Castiel to execute it. Taking heart from that, Castiel threw as Dean suggested, a fast slider that the bottom dropped out of, and nailed it. Well inside, it was ball two, but Hechavarria leapt back from the plate to avoid the blow and when he resumed his stance he was farther back. He fouled off a fourth pitch and a fifth, took ball three, and Castiel stared down his second full count of the day. Watching Dean with narrowed eyes, Castiel shook of Dean’s suggestion of a slurve on the inside corner, shook off a low fastball, ignored Dean’s obvious irritation and decided on his own to throw the last thing anyone would expect – a fastball straight down the middle.

His grip slipped at the last moment; the ball curved down, bucked in the dirt.

Ball four.

The crowd roared in fury; Hechavarria strolled down to first base so cockily that the first base umpire yelled at him, and Castiel’s heart sank unpleasantly. Even the sun couldn’t warm him; he felt cold through.

_I blew it._

Everything seemed to freeze, a handful of seconds that lasted an age of frigid darkness. Then, with a slow inhale and a sighing exhale, Castiel shook it off. He still had the no-hitter. Even if he fucked that up, too, he’d done what he set out to do that day. The Nationals were in an excellent position to win the game. If he could strike out one more, he’d match a pinnacle of strike outs in a single game only 20 pitchers had reached. If the Nationals scored a run so that Castiel could earn the win, he’d be at 20 wins. No matter what, he’d had a career game, a career season. He had years ahead of him to strive for perfection.

There might never be a game in his career that had the precise confluence of events that gave a chance at a no-hitter.

 _One pitch at a time_.

Warmth returned, sound returned, confidence returned. Dean’s voice echoed in Castiel’s ears. _You’ve got this, Cas._

_I’ve got this._

As expected, Fernandez was pulled from the lineup in favor of a pinch hitter. Christian Yelich appeared surprised at how roundly booed he was. Dean met Castiel’s eyes, called a fastball, and Yelich took an awkward chop as the pitch passed over the plate, glancing it into the infield. Hit slowly, it rolled towards second as Corbett charged forward; grabbing the ball and rounding in one smooth motion, he shot it to Talley covering second base, who then threw his hardest to hurry the ball to Kubrick at first. There was a moment’s pause before the first base umpire called the out and the double play was official. The no-hitter was intact; now all they needed was for the Nationals to score a run in the bottom of the 9th.

They didn’t.

A.J. Ramos was fricken lights out, making Carey, Kubrick and Corbett look stupid, and ensuring that the game went to extra innings. Focusing on his breathing, Castiel prepared to take the field for the top of the tenth only to be interrupted by Coach Singer.

“Take your glove off,” said Singer grunted. “You’re done.”

“No.”

“This isn’t a discussion,” Turner snapped. “We’re sending Samandriel out.”

“ _No_.”

“Bobby—”

“I said _no_ , Dean,” Castiel snarled, rounding on the catcher. Dean grimaced and sighed.

“I think you should let Cas pitch,” Dean concluded softly. Singer and Turner both turned to him and Castiel’s stomach twisted with shame and self-reproach. Singer gestured wordlessly for Dean to continue. “He’s only at 102 pitches. If we lose this game, the season is over and his pitch count won’t have mattered. If we take him out, he can’t get the win, and even though he carried the no-hitter through nine he won’t get credit even if Alfie is able to preserve it. Come on, just let Cas go out there. What’s the worst thing that happens?”

“Wow, that’s some voice of support,” said Castiel sarcastically.

_No, no, I have to do better._

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he muttered. He didn’t know what to make of Dean’s pained expression and lack of reply.

_I have to make this up to him later._

“Fine. Get out there, Novak,” said Turner. Singer opened his mouth to object, but Turner held up an arresting hand. “You get one more inning. Make it count.”

_I got this – I got this – I—_

“Cas,” Dean called as they trotted to their positions, “you’ve got this.”

“Yeah, Dean,” Castiel even managed a smile, “I do.”

He did. The top of the tenth passed quickly despite the hitting threat posed by the top of the Marlins line up. Castiel felt like he blinked and it was over, though it actually took 15 pitches, an awkward catch by Dean at the backstop and a near-miss when Kubrick had to leap to catch a throw to first. How difficult the [frame ](http://www.thefreedictionary.com/frame)was didn’t matter; the [box score](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Box_score_\(baseball\)) would show a zero, would show that the no-hitter had been preserved. That was all that mattered.

It was all in the hands of the hitters now. The Nationals were due up, the pressure resting on the bottom of their lineup. Dean was up first, followed by Kubrick and then the pitchers spot – Walker would likely pinch hit for Castiel and send Alfie out for the eleventh. To say that Dean looked jittery in the break between the half-innings was an understatement. His hands visibly shook on the bat. Guilt clenched at Castiel’s chest as Dean strode by him towards the warm up circle.

“Dean!”

Dean froze, turned hesitantly, worry furrowing his brow and forcing his lips into a tight frown.

“You’ve got this.”

Dean’s expression broke into a smile. It was a troubled smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but he smiled nonetheless and gave Castiel a single stiff nod.

_I believe in you, Dean, even when you don’t believe in yourself. I know you can do this._

The Marlins ran Ramos out to pitch a second inning. From the first pitch to Dean, it was obvious Ramos was still on fire. Dean watched the strike go by as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The second pitch completely overmatched him, too – Dean took a dramatic swing that jerked him nearly all the way around in a circle. The crowd laughed even as they shouted encouragement to him. There was hardly a fan still in their seats, everyone was standing, cheering, rooting hard for the team, giving their full support every player. Every sin of poor play from earlier in the season had been forgotten. Anyone who could score a run would be a hero, regardless of past performance. Blanketed by the dull roar, Castiel watched Dean gain confidence, take a slow breathe. He watched ball one go by, barely arrested a swing for ball two. The Marlins players jeered when the third base coach confirmed that Dean hadn’t gone around, that the home plate umpire’s call stood. Ramos scowled, held the ball before him, shifted his grip, let fly…

…and Dean swung, stance jerking stiffly as he made solid contact with a thwack. The crowd gasped, Castiel stood slowly, and Dean spent a moment staring until Singer screamed, “run, you idjit!” Startled, Dean started towards first, not remembering to drop the bat until he was nearly there. By the time he rounded the base his legs were churning at the dirt. The ball fell in the left field corner, Suzuki chasing it down. Far from slowing, Dean put his head down and ran as hard as he could for third as Suzuki tried and failed to get a grip on the ball. Beside third base, Coach Elkins held up a restraining hand, indicating that Dean should stop. Either Dean didn’t notice or he didn’t give a shit; he glanced towards the outfield and must have seen Suzuki straightening, ball in hand. The outfielder threw with his entire body to get the ball into the infield as fast as he could. The crowd screamed, Turner bellowed at Dean to stop, Suzuki bypassed the [relay man](https://www.infosports.com/zdr/tm/relay_def.htm) and hurled the ball directly to Hechavarria, [the cutoff man](http://www.sportingcharts.com/dictionary/mlb/cut-off-man.aspx) at shortstop. Hechavarria rounded instantly towards home. Every player on the Nationals was at the dugout fence screaming encouragement to Dean, whose face was flushed red, head down as he ran harder than Castiel would have thought he could. Though the catcher Realmuto didn’t have the ball yet, he’d positioned himself directly over the plate so that Dean would have to hit him in order to touch the base and score. Hechavarria’s hasty throw was high, though; Realmuto leapt to catch it, Dean slid, Realmuto fricken _landed on top of him_ …

…and the umpire’s [arms swept wide](http://jimbaumerexperience.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/Umpire-plat-call-890x577.jpg). Dean was safe. The slowest player on the team, knee injury and all, had legged a double into an [inside the park](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inside-the-park_home_run) [walk off homerun](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walk-off_home_run). The game was over.

They’d won.

They’d really won.

The eruption of cheers that followed was unlike anything Castiel had heard before, like a mountain of sound had collapsed atop the infield. Castiel leapt up, grabbed the top of the dugout fence and vaulted over it, feet set to run the instant they hit the dirt. The rest of the team was close behind, mobbing home plate. Castiel got there first. Dean was on his knees, looking dazed and uncertain as an angry Hechavarria stalked back towards the Marlins dugout. Catching Dean in his arms, Castiel held him close.

“You did it, holy shit, Dean!”

Other players started to arrive, gathering around, making a jumping, shouting, cheering, laughing dog-pile around Castiel and Dean.

“I did…”

“You did!”

Everyone was cheering, screaming; the stadium’s sound system pounded out Pink as she sang, “right, right, turn off the lights, we gonna lose our minds tonight…” and the other players huddled close, burying Castiel and Dean from outside view. Protected, Castiel let his emotions sweep him away and he kissed Dean full on the lips, reveling in the way Dean laughed against him.

“Hey, Cas,” he grinned bemusedly.

“Hello, Dean.”

“I don’t think I can stand up,” admitted Dean.

“That’s okay,” Castiel caught him in a tight embrace. “You’ve done enough.”

They were going to the post-season. 

* * *

 

_Jimmy (4:25 PM): A perfect game through 5? Holy shit, Cassie. Go go go go._

_Jimmy (4:55 PM): Snitker totally reamed me out for texting during the game but fuck that shit. Our season is over and we’re playing against the Tigers, whose season is also over, it’s like the least meaningful game of my entire fucking career while you’re kicking ass. It’s your party and I’ll text if I want to. Perfect through seven! Make it eight!_

_Jimmy (5:30 PM): Oh my god. Holy shit. I just bought plain tickets for the morning. I’ll be there ASAP Cassie. They interrupted our game to show a replay of Dean crossing home on the Jumbotron and everyone here was cheering. I wish he could have heard it. That was fucking awesome! And you got a no-hitter!_

_Jimmy (5:33 PM): Holy shit!_

_Jimmy (5:34 PM): Seriously, holy shit!!!!!!!!!!_

_Jimmy (5:40 PM): Is Dean okay?_

_Jimmy (5:45 PM): IS DEAN OKAY?_

_Castiel (5:58 PM): We’re not sure yet. Something is wrong with his knee but he’s being a stubborn asshole and won’t let anyone take a look at it yet._

_Castiel (5:59 PM): I was a real jerk to him during the game. I’ll need your help to make it up to him._

“Mr. Novak!”

Scowling, Castiel pulled his gaze from his phone. In the nearly half hour that had passed since the game ended, it had been impossible to get a moment to himself. First they’d celebrated on the field until Castiel had realized Dean was dead serious about not being able to stand and needed help hobbling to the dugout. From there, Castiel had been shunted into a post-game interview with Cain. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Castiel had hardly gotten five words out before Milligan and Talley appeared as from nowhere to smash two whip cream pies against his face (no one would risk Castiel’s health by dumping water or Gatorade over him in the cooling October weather). Only Singer’s intervention had bought Castiel enough time to go to the locker room, toss his glove in his locker, wipe his face off, and check his phone.

“How do you feel about pitching a no-hitter, Mr. Novak?” demanded a reporter he didn’t know. Castiel turned the full force of his scowl on the older man, who looked supremely unphased.

“How do you _think_ I feel?” he snapped. “Turner is hosting an official news conference. I’ll be available for questions there in five minutes. For now, leave me the hell alone.”

“Can I quote you on that?” the reporter asked with a knowing smirk.

“Quote whatever the fuck you want,” said Castiel. There was no one else in the locker room. This was supposed to be his glorious five whole minutes to himself while the rest of the team was at the press conference. After the media was done with the team, there’d be celebration, Champaign, a few minutes to diffuse the stress of a long season and revel in the week they’d have off before the first game of the National League Division Series, where they’d be playing the Pirates.

“Why did you kiss Dean Winchester?” The reporter looked downright smug. Castiel resisted the urge to punch him. It wasn’t even that he was particularly angry, but Castiel was wired from the game, every nerve on overdrive, his hands trembling as the intense energy that had sustained him through ten innings faded.

“Fuck off,” Castiel suggested, flipping the man off. The asshole made a note on an iPad, gave Castiel one more arrogant grin, and left the locker room.

Sinking onto the bench before his locker, Castiel allowed the wash of emotions to momentarily overwhelm him. He’d done it. He’d really done it. During their interview Cain had told him that only six pitchers in the history of the game had won no-hitters that had carried into the tenth inning. He’d made history even without his perfect game. Dean was hurt, though, and now they faced the pressure of the post-season. His phone pinged.

_Jimmy (6:04 PM): What about you, Cassie? How are you doing?_

_Castiel (6:05 PM): I’m not sure._

_Jimmy (6:05 PM): You’re freaking out, aren’t you._

_Jimmy (6:05 PM): I can practically feel you freaking out from here._

_Jimmy (6:06 PM): You sure looked like you were freaking out during that post-game bit._

_Castiel (6:06 PM): I might be freaking out._

_Jimmy (6:07 PM): Breathe, brother. The hard part is done. And I’ll be there tomorrow morning to help. Our last gasp should be done by 7 PM and I’ve got a flight out of Atlanta at 5:15 in the morning._

_Jimmy (6:08 PM): Take care of Dean for me!_

_Jimmy (6:08 PM): And take care of yourself, too._

The precious minutes of exchanging texts with Jimmy helped ground Castiel. Things were good. He’d just ensured that no matter what happened in the rest of his career, he’d made history. The Nationals were headed to the NLDS. Best of all, he was reconciled with his brother and he was allowed to touch Dean. He thought of how he’d felt scant months before at the All Star break, compared to how he felt now.

Castiel was on top of the fricken world.

With a deep breathe, he went to face the music at the press conference. There was nothing to be afraid of.

_I’ve got this._

* * *

“Can you tell Jimmy to get off my case?” grumbled Dean. Castiel looked up at him questioningly. “ ‘Dean, make sure to take the ice off after twenty minutes!’ ” Dean mimicked. “ ‘Dean, eat a healthy meal tonight! Dean, get some rest! Dean, put your leg up! Dean, use crutches so you don’t put any weight on it! Dean, don’t stand up! Dean, make Cassie get you anything you need.’ ” Castiel quirked an eyebrow at the last and Dean shrugged.

“Anything?” asked Castiel. With a flush, Dean looked away. “That seems incongruous with his directive that you get some rest. But if you wanted to…”

“Dude, do you _ever_ get tired?” Dean groused. The ice pack balanced on Dean’s knee slid onto the ottoman for the umpteenth time and Dean leaned forward and repositioned it. 

Irritation spiked through Castiel for a moment before he could quash it. Despite Jimmy’s enthusiastic permission, Dean had resisted engaging in intimacy while Castiel’s twin wasn’t around. A _m I not good enough? Doesn’t he want me? Am I just a ‘plus one’ for Jimmy and Dean’s relationship? No. We’ve talked about this. That’s not the situation. Jimmy wants both of us. Dean wants both of us. It just feels awkward to Dean to only be with one or the other of us now that we’re a threesome. That’s what he said and I have to believe him._

_Would it feel awkward to me?_

_Fuck if I know._

All Castiel knew was that he was still fucking _wired_. Surely, there was a crash coming in his future. It was approaching midnight, he’d spent two hours after the game stuck in interviews and photoshoots to commemorate his historic win, his fantastic season, and the triumphant finale of the Nationals pennant race. After that, Lafitte, Jo, Milligan and Tran had dragged him to the locker room, where festivities were well underway. Loud music came from the sound system that had, before the game, broadcast Josie and Cain prognosticating their doom. Champaign, beer, and harder liquor circulated freely; the musky scent of weed came from the bathroom where Gallagher and a few others had disappeared; and everyone was laughing, congratulating him, dancing, grinning. It had been a great atmosphere, but exhausting in its own way. Castiel had long to escaped to private and quiet but had been trapped until Singer, Turner and Milton showed up and told the team that enough was enough, that cabs had been arranged because all their drunken asses were too gone to be allowed to drive. Castiel hadn’t needed a cab, though – Dean had appeared at his shoulder (had he been there the whole time without Castiel’s noticing?), promising that he was sober because alcohol and his pain medication didn’t mix. With an impressively casual laugh Dean had grabbed Jo, told her that he was giving Castiel a ride home and that Jo shouldn’t wait up because, with the stress of the day, Dean figured he’d crash in the Novak guest room. A raised eyebrow had communicated her suspicion, and Castiel didn’t think it his imagination that they’d received a few other looks for leaving together, but no had said anything.

_How many of them saw us kiss? How did that reporter know about that?_

_Fuck, now everyone is going to think that Dean is cheating on Jimmy with me._

“Hey, you with me?”

Startled, Castiel looked up from staring at his lap to see Dean, concerned, squatting before him.

“Dean, you shouldn’t be up – and you definitely shouldn’t be bending your knee that way,” admonished Castiel.

“Naw, it doesn’t matter,” Dean shook his head.

“But—”

“I’m done, Cas,” said Dean, firmly.

_No, no, no, no, I can’t!_

“No—”

_I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!_

“Listen,” Dean cut him off. “I’m almost 38. I’ve been playing baseball professionally for 20 years. I’ve had one hell of a lot of injuries in that time, and I’m through sugar coating this shit. I’m done, Cas.” Eyes swimming with tears, Dean gave him a sad smile. “Totally fucking worth it, though. That was one hell of a game.”

Panic clutched at Castiel’s chest.

_I have to—_

_How am I supposed to—_

_What about the NLDS? What about the World Series? What about—?_

“Hey!” Dean’s sharp voice, accompanied by a gentle hand cupping Castiel’s cheek, interrupted his spiraling fears. “This ain’t your fault, Cas. I knew exactly what I was doing when I legged out that run. It was fucking worth it. My career was fucked anyway; now, instead of being the asshole who went down unwilling to acknowledge that his injuries finished him, I go down as the catcher who caught a ten inning no-hitter in his last start, _and_ scored the game winning run with an in-the-park homer. That shit’ll definitely warrant a footnote on your plaque when they put you in [Cooperstown](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Baseball_Hall_of_Fame_and_Museum). And Cas…I’m not going anywhere. As long as you want my help, I’m here. Got that?”

Castiel couldn’t find any words to answer, but he managed a faint nod.

 _Dean ended his career to help me win tonight. How dare I be selfish and think about how I need him to pitch well? I_ have _to do better – on the field, off the field. I’m Castiel fucking Novak. I won 20 games this season. I pitched a ten inning no-hitter. I’m going to the NLDS. I don’t need a specific catcher to kick this fucking game in the ass._

“I’ve got this,” he muttered. Dean grinned at him.

“Fuck yeah, you’ve got this, Cas.”

Gently, Dean’s lips met his, rough and chapped, the stubble of a long day abrading as their cheeks brushed and their noses bumped. Just like Jimmy had said, Dean tasted like whiskey, smelled like leather; Castiel wouldn’t trade Dean’s coarse edges for any amount of softer, smoother contact. Matching each tender shift of Dean’s face, Castiel leaned into the kiss, leaned into Dean.

_If he were less giving, less self-sacrificing, he might have been able to play another season. But if he were anything other than what he is, he’d not have put up with my shit all season, he’d not have dated Jimmy despite Jimmy’s post-breakup hang-ups, he’d not be here with me now._

One of Dean’s arms enwrapped Castiel’s waist and brought with it comfort, support, strength. For the first time since that morning, Castiel’s tension ebbed away. Castiel didn’t have to be strong any longer, not that day. Dean, whose strength was patience, perseverance, determination, could be strong for him. With Dean there, Castiel could be weak. His shoulders slumped, his back bowed out, he settled limply back into the couch. Dean followed him, not breaking off their kisses as he climbed atop Castiel, their bodies rutting together slowly and deliberately.

_Everything I’ve had since spring training, everything I’ve achieved, has been thanks to Dean._

All the excitement that had kept fatigue at bay vanished. Exhaustion crashed in around Castiel, and with it came a flood of conflicting emotions. For an instant he was overwhelmed, frightened even. He pulled back from Dean, whose green eyes went wide in confusion, and everything in Castiel’s mind settled comfortably back into place as quickly as it had nearly crumbled.

“I think I love you,” Castiel whispered, reaching out to trace the lines of Dean’s face.

“Cas—”

Using the hand to steer Dean’s face to his, Castiel interrupted him with a kiss.

“I love you, Dean,” he repeated.

“For what?” There was wonder on Dean’s face, but also a trace of fear, uncertainty, a tightness around Dean’s eyes that Castiel couldn’t read but suspected he knew the cause of. He’d spent plenty of time around Dean and knew how unworthy Dean always thought he was, how inadequate he automatically assumed himself to be.

“For giving me everything.”

_It’s my turn to do the same for him. I can be unselfish. I can be good for Jimmy and Dean. I can do better. For them, I will always do better, will always be better than who I was born to be._

The silence in the room after that was absolute save for the rustle of clothing and the occasional breathy moan, a welcome relief after the unremitting loudness of the past day. A series of gradual, slow shifts left Dean flat on his back on the couch, Castiel atop him, their lips and hips moving in tandem. Neither had removed clothing, neither pushed for urgency; instead, lazy pleasure suffused Castiel and he surrendered to it. This was an unfamiliar way of fucking. Castiel preferred sex rough, preferred it hard and fast and desperate and tinged with anger. Jimmy had always been into it, and from what Castiel had seen Dean was a fan too, but the way Dean melted into relaxation beneath Castiel under more tender attention was phenomenal. They weren’t having sex, they definitely weren’t fucking. They were _making love_. Time ceased to mean anything. There was nothing but Dean’s lips against his, Dean’s muscular, gorgeous body beneath him, Dean’s cock rubbing at Castiel’s thigh, Castiel’s cock against Dean’s hip.

“Cas,” Dean whispered reverently.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Cas, please…” Dean’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed, his mouth open to free panting breaths.

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel had rarely heard his own voice so rough, so broken with desire.

“May I come?”

_Jesus fucking Christ._

Castiel groaned, nodded though Dean couldn’t see him. Reaching between their bodies, Castiel palmed at Dean’s erection, earning a whimper. “Come for me,” Castiel whispered, stroking Dean, painting feather-light kisses over Dean’s chin, his cheek, his neck. “C’mon, Dean.”

“Cas…”

“I’m here, Dean – Jimmy will be here tomorrow – we’re not going anywhere,” he promised. “We’ve got you now, and we’re not letting you go.”

“ _Cas_!” Dean gasped, eyes flying open.

“Let us give you everything, Dean. Come.”

More than the cheers at the end of that day’s game, more than Jimmy’s wrecked voice the first time he’d told Castiel he’d loved him, more than the announcer who’d shouted out Castiel’s name when he was picked fifth overall in the [draft](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_League_Baseball_draft), more than _anything_ , Dean’s moans as he came were the most satisfying sound Castiel had ever heard.


	15. Chapter 15

“I can’t believe you let Dean sleep on the couch, brother,” Jimmy scolded.

They weren’t on the couch any longer.

“We were comfortable,” Cas replied, managing not to sound defensive despite the inherently defensive nature of his reply. “And tired. So, we fell asleep.”

Cas’ hand rested familiarly on Dean’s ass, Jimmy’s fingers teased at Dean’s rim. Or maybe it was the other way ‘round. Lying face down on the bed, it was impossible to be sure, though he knew that Jimmy was on his left and Cas was on his right.

“I trusted you to take care of him last night,” continued Jimmy.

A thick finger pressed against Dean’s hole, spreading him slightly.

“I did,” Cas said smugly.

A second finger, definitely from a different hand, certainly from a different twin, joined the first.

“Fuck that, you didn’t even clean the come out of his pants,” Jimmy’s reprimanding tone was scathing.

Unlubricated, both fingers stretched him, an aching burn that left Dean whimpering. He desperately wanted to hitch his hips up, chase that feeling, urge them deeper within him, but even if they hadn’t ordered him to stillness Dean wasn’t sure if he could move. His knee throbbed painfully despite the ice pack secured against it by an ace bandage. There’d been a snap as he’d rounded second during the game the previous day, a moment of weightless freedom followed by agony that had kicked in while he was on the [home stretch](http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-the-home-stretch.htm). No one, not even the twins roughly fingering him open, knew how bad it was. He was no doctor, but he’d lay odds he’d torn his ACL. Later, he’d get his ass to a hospital, get an MRI, and almost certainly end up scheduled for surgery. He wanted these few hours, though – he needed the, needed the comfort of being with the twins to quiet the demons that screamed fury and betrayal that he was prepared to end his career.

“I didn’t receive any complaints,” said Cas.

One of the fingers within Dean – Cas’, judging by which side the touch came from – thrust into him hard and deep. Mingled pain and pleasure eddied and Dean whimpered.

“Sorry, babe,” cooed Jimmy. Dean flushed. _Babe? Really?_ He’d have objected, but there was no speaking around the two dirty jockstraps tied around his face as a gag. The taste of Cas and Jimmy’s sweat, musky and sour, coated his tongue. “If I’d been here, things woulda been different. I promise we’re going to take good care of you now.” A soothing hand traced down Dean’s spine, tested the bindings that tied his wrists together against the small of his back. The paired fingers pulling out of him, pressing back in hard, made an irresistible counterpoint.

“Big or little?” Castiel asked consideringly.

In emphasis, a third finger pushed into Dean. A moan garbled around his gag, his back tensed, until a brush against his prostate sent a wave of relaxing heat coursing through him and he eased back against the bed. His cock bobbed, hot despite the cool of the air conditioned room

“Good question,” said Jimmy. “Dean, do you have an opinion?”

Dean wasn’t sure what they were asking but he had to come up with some kind of answer.

“[Flash fastball for big, slider for little](http://www.baseball-catcher.com/guide/signals.htm),” Castiel suggested, voice rich with humor.

If they meant parts of their bodies, Dean might be agreeing to a fist, or to double penetration, or they might spitroast him, or both try to get three fingers in his ass, or – or – or. If they intended to utilize Cas’ impressive collection of toys, _big_ and _little_ could refer to almost anything, from dildos to butt plugs to fleshlights to ball gags to cock cages to whips. The twins could open a fucking porn shop with the stash of props they kept in a cabinet in their walk-in closet.

“Tick, tock…” Jimmy emphasized the words with two sharp, hard thrusts in Dean’s channel. Pain accented pleasure as the other hand within him applied firm, continual pressure to Dean’s prostate. It was all he could do not to writhe against the bed to give relief to his neglected, leaking cock.

What did he want? After the gentle lovemaking of the night before, after he and Cas’ rude 8 AM awakening as Jimmy arrived and burst into laughter to see them tangled up and passed out on the couch, Dean wanted to be fucking _owned_. Chances were he’d be in the hospital for a few days after this, chances were that the twins would be pissed at him for keeping the extent of his injury a secret for twenty four hours. Over the days to come he wanted reminders on his skin, in his body, that he was theirs, that they had him, that even though he’d never return to the field Jimmy and Cas thought he was worth something – that Cas had said he thought Dean was worth _everything_. That seemed impossible to Dean. He knew it’d be a long time before he truly accepted it. In the meantime, every time they touched him, every time they soothed his tension, every time they bruised him, served as a reminder that Dean had finally, after a fucking lifetime on the road, found a place to call home.

He worked his pointer out, one finger pointed down, the universal signal for a fastball.

“Excellent choice.” Dean wasn’t sure which of them spoke – it might have been both of them purring satisfaction in low, guttural, aroused tones. The weight beside him on the bed shifted, some of the fingers in his ass were withdrawn, replaced by others, and Dean lost track of who was where, whose touch was on his skin and in his body. He could open his eyes and check – he wasn’t blindfolded – but he loved the uncertainty, loved being the center of Jimmy and Cas’ attention. They would take care of him.

The distinctive sound of lube squeezing out of a bottle shot expectant desire hot through Dean’s body. The fingers in his ass stopped thrusting, withdrew until they were just within him, spread his dry hole wide. Dean’s pulse raced, his muscles twitched; a hand spread his cheeks wide and then something cold, lube-slicked and thick pressed into him. Dean’s eyes flew open, wide and unseeing, as he gasped in stale air around his gag. He wasn’t nearly prepped enough for the size of the cock being shoved into him. The dildo – it had to be a dildo – stretched him; the taut muscles of his rim clenched and unclenched uselessly as he was steadily penetrated. Words broke against the gag in guttural sounds – _oh God, oh fuck, so fricken big, fucking hurts, feels so fucking good_ \- and Dean frantically tried to stop himself from resisting.

“Got you, babe,” whispered a voice – Jimmy, Dean thought – in his ear.

“We’ve got you, Dean, you’re alright.” That was definitely Cas. Gentle hands wrapped around Dean’s shoulders, massaging out the tension, and Dean melted against the bed as the dildo filled him deeper, spread him wider, and then with a sudden, wet sound his ass clenched around the silicon as it narrowed and flared into the base of a plug. Dean didn’t think he’d ever taken anything so large; every inch of his insides felt stretched, owned. Tears leaked from his eyes.

It felt fucking _awesome_.

“You look so good with our toys in that perfect ass of yours,” murmured Cas.

There were four hands on his body, four hands carding through his hair, trailing down his back, rubbing along his arms, kneading his inner thigh, all moving and shifting, disappearing and returning.

“Are you okay, beautiful?” Jimmy asked.

Dean nodded enthusiastic agreement against the bed. The movement caused his body to shake, his cock to rub against the comforter. He’d better stop; if he kept that up he’d come.

“You look positively fuckable,” Cas breathed.

“What do you have in mind, Cassie?” Jimmy spoke as he nipped at the ear he’d been speaking into. Each bite forced a twitch that jerked Dean’s body slightly, rubbed the dildo inadequately against his channel, rubbed his cock against the blankets. Patient up to know, the passion that simmered through Dean flared to hot flames of need that begged silently for them to fuck him: with the dildo, with their cocks, Dean wasn’t picky but he needed whatever was in his ass to _move_.

“Give me a hand, brother,” was the only answer Cas gave. Dean shivered. Castiel saying _brother_ in that horny, breathy voice shouldn’t be so fucking hot.

Strong arms worked between Dean’s chest and the bed, a firm grip wrapped around his shoulder so hard he suspected it would bruise, and his body was moved, rolled, until he was on his back. His tied hands dug into the soft mattress, dug into his back uncomfortably. Before he could make a signal to object, his weight fell hard on the base of the plug, shoved it against his insides, tugged his rim, pressed against his prostate, and Dean was lost. Unstoppably, his hips pivoted to replicate the feeling, again, again, urgently.

“Dean!” Cas’ reprimand was sharp. Dean choked back a sob and managed to restrain the motion to inadequate wiggles that pulsed fire through him. With his cock freed to the open air, thin liquid dripped cool against his belly. One of the brothers tsked and hands seized his hips to hold him still. “If you can’t stop yourself, we _will_ stop you. I’d hate to have to tie you up.”

“Liar,” teased Jimmy.

“Open your eyes, Dean.”

Blinking wetness from his vision, Dean obeyed. Cas and Jimmy were both on his left, the expanse of the mattress dipping beneath their weight. Dean’s gaze met Cas and Jimmy’s eyes in turn; both looked aroused, Jimmy smiling, Cas’ eyes narrowed assessingly. With an approving nod, Cas rounded on Jimmy, grabbed him and forced his shoulders down against the bed, ignoring Jimmy’s startled squawk. Jimmy’s ass rose alluringly into the air, Cas directly behind him, eying Jimmy’s hole; he flicked a look at Dean as if it say _do you see how fine this is_? And Dean did, fuck did he. It was hard not to stare at the gorgeous quantity of bare skin revealed to Dean’s eyes. The twins were fucking _gorgeous_ : cut muscles, sculpted shoulders, perfectly curved spines, not an ounce of spare fat. Cas held up a hand gleaming with liquid – lube, Dean supposed, ass twitching around the dildo wedged in his body – and with all the smooth confidence of copious experience, Cas thrust two fingers into Jimmy’s ass. Jimmy shouted wordless surprise and spasmed up from the bed; Dean bit into the gag, unable to look away. The dildo shifted within him and Dean fought down the urge to fuck himself stupid on it.

“I wanted you to see this,” Cas explained.

“What are you _doing_?” Jimmy gasped.

“There’s something that Jimmy and I spoke about from time to time that we never got the opportunity to try,” continued Cas as if Jimmy hadn’t spoken. Hasty movements accompanied Cas’ words as he prepped his brother. Every thrust forced huffs from Jimmy, who rocked back against Cas’ hand. “Toys are not the same as the real thing, after all, and finding a third to join two brothers is…problematic.”

“Cassie!” Jimmy turned the name into a moan. Whatever Cas was getting at, Jimmy had clearly figured it out. Glancing first over his shoulder and then at Dean, Jimmy buried his face in the dark bedspread and groaned, hoisting his ass into Castiel’s increasingly rapid preparations. “I don’t…don’t know if I can…it’s been a while since…”

“Dean, do you want to fuck my brother?”

A moan of agreement died in Dean’s chest. Cas rewarded him with a faint quirk of his lips into a smile.

“Good, so do I,” Cas said.

“Fuck,” whispered Jimmy. Cas went still; Jimmy rocked eagerly into his hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“See, if Dean is up for it, why shouldn’t you be?” asked Cas.

“Just shut up and let Dean fuck me already,” Jimmy managed. Dean’s eyes rolled back at the thought. By the time he got his gaze focused again, Cas was pushing and shoving his brother into position, though judging by the look on Jimmy’s face he didn’t need the encouragement. He stared at Dean’s cock hungrily, reminding Dean that ages ago, when they’d first started having phone sex, Jimmy had assumed he’d bottom for Dean, had assumed that would be Dean’s preference. It wasn’t, but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy it, and watching Jimmy take up a position straddling him, watching Cas hovering behind his brother and maneuvering his hips, was enough to fire Dean’s imagination, flare desire through his body, his channel, his cock. Jimmy gave him a weak smile then threw his head back with a groan as Cas wrapped a hand around Dean’s dick and pressed the head of it to Jimmy’s hole.

The sound that came out of Dean’s throat would have been an apt echo of Jimmy’s repeated whispers of _fuck, fuck, fuck_ had Dean not been forced mute by the jockstraps stuffed between his teeth. Jimmy spread easily for Dean despite Jimmy’s objection that it had been too long since he’d done this. Castiel was unrelenting; he didn’t release Jimmy’s hips until Jimmy’s ass rested on Dean’s crotch.

“Show me how much you want this,” Castiel ordered, backing away. Jimmy nodded vigorous and began to move, rising slowly up, then slamming himself back down. Dean howled, the sound choking behind his teeth. As Jimmy enveloped him, Dean’s hips pressed into the mattress, the dildo jerked in his body, and unspeakable pleasure washed through him. Jimmy didn’t slow for an instant, he rose again, dropped again, and Dean panted, desperate to catch his breath as his heart raced. It was like fucking and being fucked simultaneously.

_Is that where this is going? Is Cas going to fuck me?_

No answer was forthcoming. Jimmy rode Dean hard and fast, the dildo worked and shifted and rubbed over Dean’s prostate and drove him fucking crazy. It was all he could do not to move, not to bend his knees up so that he could fuck hard into Jimmy’s body, not to grab Jimmy’s hips and steer him to go faster. Only Cas’ unremitting gaze stopped Dean; there was hunger in his eyes reminiscent of their last tryst, when Cas had watched Jimmy fuck Dean while awaiting his turn.

_Is Cas going to fuck Jimmy after I do? He certainly implied it. Maybe he plans to fuck both of us?_

A lubed hand stroked slowly over Cas’ flushed cock, slick and prepared. Cas’ gaze shifted from Dean to Jimmy in turn; Jimmy’s head was thrown back, mouth slack, eyes closed, entire toned chest curved forward.

“Jimmy?” prompted Cas.

“I’m ready,” Jimmy panted. “Fuck, I’m so ready.” Cas’ lips curved into a genuine, broad smile and he moved quickly, positioning himself behind Jimmy. Jimmy froze with Dean embedded as deeply as he could be, took a deep breath, leaned forward. He was flushed from forehead to dusky nipples, so beautiful that Dean wished his hands weren’t bound so that he could run his fingers over Jimmy’s six pack, the gentle concave curve of Jimmy’s belly, wrap his fingers around Jimmy’s leaking cock.

A touch against the base of Dean’s cock caused him to jerk, the dildo within him to move, pleasure to surge. Pressure against Dean’s length increased as a finger worked into Jimmy’s ass alongside Dean’s cock. Jimmy stared into Dean’s eyes, gasping in gulps of air, blinking back tears.

_Wait. Cas wanted to fuck Jimmy too. We’re both going to fuck Jimmy. We’re…_

Dean groaned and pivoted his hips up. Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, rolling his hips down. Cas placed a sharp slap on Dean’s inner thigh.

“Keep still.”

All Dean could do was whimper as Cas continued, stretching Jimmy wider, working two fingers in. Every touch was electric. Dean was desperate to thrust until he came, desperate to hump the toy buried in his ass, desperate for a kiss, a touch to his skin, teeth on his nipple. It took all of his concentration to hold still, all of his determination, but even that shattered when Cas finally decided that Jimmy was ready, bent his brother all the way forward and slowly, infinitesimally slowly, pressed his cock in to Jimmy’s ass alongside Dean’s. The pressure was like nothing Dean had ever felt before, so extreme that it shouldn’t have felt good, except it did, it felt _glorious_ , tight and hot and fricken perfect.

“Dean,” Jimmy moaned, collapsing forward onto Dean’s chest, writhing. “Shit…Cassie…”

“I’ve got you,” said Cas. “I’ve got both of you. Are you okay, Dean?” Dean nodded frantically, hips twitching up. Jimmy had been tight before but now he was more so, much more so, the pressure of Cas’ cock lining up with Dean’s sharp and wonderful. Jimmy wept and moaned, dampening the skin over Dean’s heart. Dean trembled with the need to keep still. His tongue was bone dry against his gag, his thought suffused increasingly with a single directive.

He had to _move_.

Castiel bottomed out.

Jimmy plastered a sloppy kiss over Dean’s lips.

A click, soft yet audible, provided no actual warning before the plug buried in Dean’s ass began to vibrate. With a gasp, Dean thrust up from the bed, Jimmy sobbed bliss, Cas chuckled wickedly, and Dean gave up on holding himself back. It didn’t matter if Cas had told him to hold still, didn’t matter if Cas threatened him now with punishment. Dean _had_ to move. Fortunately, no rebuke came. As Jimmy begged, words broken into incomprehensibility though his meaning was clear, Cas moved too, sandwiching Jimmy between Dean and Cas and fucking into him hard. It was mere moments before it was all Dean could do not to come. He twitched through weak thrusts, prostate stimulated continually, and allowed pure sensation to subsume him. As long as he didn’t come, everything was fine; if he came too soon, Dean would slip from Jimmy’s ass, Jimmy would lose the overfull feeling he was clearly enjoying. Dean couldn’t bear to let his gorgeous boyfriend down. For Jimmy’s sake, for Cas’, Dean would stave off orgasm as long as he could.

It didn’t hurt his efforts that it felt fricken _perfect_.

“I’ve missed you,” Cas grunted, fucking into Jimmy hard. He didn’t pull out far, rocking forward and drawing back; the headboard smacked hard against the wall each time Cas pushed in. “Fuck, Jimmy, I don’t ever want anything other than this. Just you, just Dean, just this, you hear?”

“Yes, Cas!”

Jimmy sounded _wrecked_.

_You close, Jimmy?_

“Are you close, brother?”

 _I’m close – so close_. _I need to come._

“Touch me,” Jimmy managed to answer. “Please touch my cock.”

“Not a chance,” said Cas wickedly. He pushed Jimmy forward, trapping Jimmy’s cock hard between Dean and Jimmy’s bodies. Every thrust Cas made rubbed Jimmy between them. The vibration within Dean ratcheted up another notch and Jimmy choked on an attempt to form words. Jimmy’s fingers dug into Dean’s shoulders and he rocked back onto Cas and Dean, rocked hard against Dean’s hips. The dildo stimulated Dean and it was too much, finally too much. With a humming shout that even the jockstrap gag couldn’t restrain, Dean came so hard the room whited out. His whole body seemed to pulse through his cock, his essence seeming to mingle with the come that streamed into the man atop him.

“Dean…”

He had no idea which of the twins whispered his name with such reverence, but the voice gave him something to hold on to, something to follow back to reality. Jimmy rutted against him weakly, whimpered when his movements forced Dean’s softening cock out of his body. The loss of pressure and sensation caused an agony of pleasure, the vibrator still on. The feelings were rapidly growing to be too much. They’d given him instructions on how to signal if he needed to stop, but now that his hands were bound behind his back, trapped against the bedding, he had no way to make the required movement. Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean tried to ride the pleasure billowing through him from his over-stimulated prostate.

With a broken cry, Jimmy rubbed his cock over Dean’s belly and came, spurting hot over his skin. A moment later, Cas thrust in hard, flattened Dean beneath Jimmy’s weight and groaned his own climax. Tears streamed from Dean’s eyes.

 _Too much, too much, it’s way too much…_ whimpering and fidgeting, Dean tried to signal that he needed them to free him but he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , and it felt so fucking good and so fucking painful. He wanted it to go on forever. He needed it to end at once. Neither twin seemed to notice, they were lost in their orgasms, gasping through their respective afterglows.

“That was awesome,” Jimmy whispered. “Thanks, Cassie. Thanks so damn much, Dean. What’d I do to deserve you?”

 _Too much, please make it stop, oh God_ …

“I’ve been asking myself that a lot,” murmured Cas.

_Please, please, please…_

“Was that good for you, Dean?” Jimmy asked. There was a pause. “Dean?”

“Dean?” echoed Cas.

Twitching, Dean tried to answer. He couldn’t talk. Why couldn’t he talk? Every nerve in his body fired with bliss, infinite bliss, he needed it to stop but it wouldn’t and he didn’t understand why not.

“What’s the matter?”

“Dean!”

Fingers were on his face, on his cheek, pain – a welcome distraction – burst through his lip as the gag came free of his mouth. Oh, right, _that’s_ why he couldn’t talk. He worked his tongue around his mouth, desperate for moisture, but there was none.

“Stop,” Dean croaked.

“I don’t understand.”

Dean was past understanding which twin was which, past anything beyond squirming under the weight pressing him down. He pushed with one of his legs, his knee flared agony and he cried out.

“ _Stop_ ,” Dean tried again.

“The plug!”

“Shit, did you turn it on?”

“Off – shut it off – get it out of him!”

Abruptly, the stimulation vanished and Dean sobbed, collapsing weakly against the bed. Tears streamed down his face. Gasping for every breath, Dean tried to gather himself.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

Before he could answer, a cup pressed to his lip and wonderfully cool liquid coated his mouth.

“That…” Dean slumped against the bed. His hands were free, he realized belatedly, but he couldn’t find the energy to move them from lying limply at his sides. More water was poured between his lips and he swallowed it gratefully. The glow of his orgasm ebbed and flowed, shrank and grew, and he forced his eyes open. Two identical faces looked back at him, matched in affection and concern. “That was fucking fantastic.” They broke into paired smiles, and Dean smiled back. “We’re gonna have one hell of an off season.”

* * *

“Sammy!”

“Dean, you’re such an _idiot_ ,” said Sam, dropping into the chair recently vacated by Jimmy. Cas hadn’t been to visit him yet, still pissed that Dean hadn’t spoken up about the state of his knee. Dean’s surgery had been rushed for no reason Dean knew off. The first game of the NLDS was the next day and Dean felt awesome. He didn’t think that was _only_ because of the narcotics he was on, but it was hard to be sure.

“Fuck it, doesn’t matter,” Dean said flippantly.

“It _does_ ,” snapped Sam. “You’re going to miss the post-season! This is probably the end of your career! Are you really okay with that?”

“Yup!”

“Don’t be an idiot, no one will hire you to play after this kind of surgery, not at your age,” Sam continued. Dean frowned and shook his head.

“Don’t give a shit,” Dean said. Sammy stopped short.

“Really?”

“Really. Remember what you said to me?” Dean asked.

“Which part?” replied Sam warily.

“I’m okay with this.” The amazing part was that Dean meant it, truly, sincerely. “Cas got his win, I got to go down in a blaze of glory…my career was done anyway. Pyrrhic victories are pretty fucking awesome, as it turns out.”

Sam shook his head, shaggy hair curling about his ears and swaying over his forehead, and broke into a smile. “I’m glad you’re happy.” It sounded like Sam meant it. “Is this about Jimmy?”

“Among other things,” agreed Dean. There was no way he could tell Sam about…

“And Castiel Novak?”

Dean choked on nothing. There was no way Sam knew. “Um…yeah…?” Sam didn’t seem pissed. It was inconceivable that Sam would be cool with Dean fucking the Novak twins, _loving_ the Novak twins, being loved by them in return.

_They do, they really do, even as pissed as Cas is, Jimmy told me that his brother had asked after Dean after every one of Jimmy’s visits._

_Those two idiots love_ me.

“Does that mean you’re going to keep working with him?” asked Sam, clearly excited at the prospect.

Oh. That. Well… “Looks that way,” said Dean. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Dean helped Cas with his pitching and would be doing so going forward.

“That’s great, Dean!”

Dean shrugged, coloring. It was kind of great, though. Jimmy and Cas were great. “Sure, whatever.”

“You want to invite Cas to the wedding?” Sam asked like he was giving Dean a gift.

“You’re asking me? It’s your wedding, invite whoever you want,” Dean said. Sam scowled with over-the-top irritation and didn’t answer, staring Dean down until he looked away. “Yeah, sure.”

“Awesome, I’ll grab you an invitation to pass on to him,” Sam said. “So, how long are you in for?”

“Tomorrow,” said Dean, looking around. “Hey, can you grab the remote over there? The Nats have a press conference I’d like to watch.”

Nodding, Sam retrieved the remote and passed it over. Dean turned the TV in his hospital room on and switched the channel to MASN. Josie, Cain and a debonair blonde that a graphic identified as Balthazar Freeley were discussing the upcoming series. Dean hit mute and turned back to Sam.

“So, I brought your tie for the wedding,” Sam said. “We got you a matching vest, too, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Please tell me you didn’t pick that pale violet monstrosity,” grumbled Dean.

“I thought you didn’t care what color tie you wore,” said Sam innocently. Glowering, Dean sniffed. “Your masculinity is safe, Dean, we went with the dark blue. I got one for Jimmy, too. I hope you don’t mind.”

A vision flashed through Dean’s mind of Jimmy in a well-cut suit, navy tie and vest bringing out the brilliant blue of his eyes. Dean imagined Castiel in a matching outfit, only their radically different hairstyles to mark the difference. Without that hint, Dean thought he’d mix them up, at least until they opened their mouths. Even then…

…it might be fun to _try_ to figure out which was with. He could just imagine the punishments Cas might concoct each time Dean guessed incorrectly.

Fortunately, Sam had no idea the thoughts passing through Dean’s head, and the drugs in his body kept him from getting embarrassingly aroused.

“When will you be arriving in California?” Sam asked, giving Dean an easy escape from his mischievous mind. They segued comfortably into discussing Sam’s plans for his wedding. It was barely a month away now, but Sam had come east to watch the NLDS. Ostensibly, this was to keep an eye on the talent he represented. In practice, it was obvious Sam had chosen Washington DC on purpose, as seeing the Nationals and the Pirates gave him the chance to visit Dean as well. Gabe had traveled to the Midwest to watch the series between the Rangers and the Royals.

“By the way,” said Sam, his tone of voice making it clear that whatever he was about to ask was something he didn’t think Dean would want to hear. Nerves clenched at Dean’s stomach. “I was wondering…”

The image on the screen flashed to the news conference, General Manager Milton standing before a backdrop emblazoned with the Nationals logo, a dozen or more mikes balanced on a podium before her.

“Later, Sammy, I gotta see this,” Dean said, not bothering to mask his relief. Sam rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Dean turned the sound on.

“—line up. Cas Novak will start game one, Kevin Tran game two, Garth Fitzgerald game three, Calvin Reidy game four, and if we play to five, Novak will get a second start.”

“What about—”

A harsh glare at the camera hushed the rush of questions Milton’s statement prompted, and she continued, “Our batting lineup will be similar to that of the rest of the season. Obviously, we will customize it based on who is starting for our opposition, but the only significant change is that, with the placement of Dean Winchester on the DL, we’ve brought up Aaron Bass again. Kubrick and Gordon Walker will [platoon ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Platoon_system)at first, and we’ve brought Lee Chambers up from the minors to replace Charles Shurley in the outfield. Other than that…we’re not looking to fool the Pirates by changing what has worked for us all season. It doesn’t matter if Pittsburgh knows who we’re running out there. If we outplay them, we’ll win. We’re 4 and 2 against them this season and we swept them in our first series of the year. We’re not worried.”

The press swamped her with questions – why Bass? Why bring Fitzgerald back? Who the heck was Chambers? Milton handled each with aplomb. After half an hour, Turner took to the podium and answered more questions: about strategy for the game, about his plans for the batting order, about who he expected the Pirates to send out to face them. There were few surprises, especially considering how acquainted Dean was with the Nationals usual MO. From there, the press had a chance to speak with individual players, starting with Talley, followed by Corbett, Spengler, Adam, on down the line.

“Adam seems to be doing well for himself,” Sam observed when their half-brother took the stand. Adam had an easy smile as if nerves weren’t an issue.

“It’s been nice to get to play alongside him for a season,” agreed Dean.

“—been great,” Milligan said on screen.

“Sounds like he feels the same way,” laughed Sam. Confused, Dean turned to him. “You missed the question, didn’t you.” With a half smile, Dean shrugged. “They asked Adam about you.”

“Ouch,” Dean joined in Sam’s laughter. “Poor Adam, they’ve got so little to ask him about his own play, they gotta waste his time asking about me?”

“He doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Probably preferable to being asked about his .225 batting average through September.”

Unfortunately, the next few questions were about Adam’s flagging late-season play, but somehow he was still smiling when he left the podium. His place was taken by Walker.

“I’ve been reviewing the Pirates probables,” Dean said loudly. There was nothing Walker could say that Dean wanted to hear. “They won the series we played against them during the last weeks of the season, but Cas won his start so he’s not got much to worry about. Their hitters are strong against [off-speed pitches](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Off-speed_pitch) but high heat makes them look stupid.”

“With that in mind, I’m surprised Milton would risk starting Reidy against them, he’s all off-speed stuff,” Sam observed.

“Yeah, Reidy might be screwed, but he’s smart. I think he’s got a chance,” said Dean.

“Will you be meeting with Cas to help him prep?”

“Tomorrow at noon,” Dean said. “I’m supposed to be out of the hospital by 9 AM.”

“That seems kind of soon,” frowned Sam.

“Whatever.” Sam didn’t need to know that Dean’s doctors had objected, that Dean’s knee still hurt, that he was going to be stuck in a wheel chair for at least a week. What with Dean’s time in the hospital after his concussion in August, Dean was sick of being trapped in a small white room and an uncomfortable bed. Further, Cas didn’t _need_ Dean’s help, but he wanted it, and fuck did Dean want to give it. He’d recover better at Cas’ house, he’d recover better if he felt useful, he’d recover better if he wasn’t completely sidelined. Being injured didn’t mean that Dean had outlived his utility. His expertise could help Cas, help the Nationals, win. Cas’ success was, after a fashion, Dean’s success, as it had been all season.

“Dean, don’t be an idiot, you need to—”

“Hold that thought,” Dean interrupted. _Indefinitely, if possible_. Cas was coming up to the podium.

It had only been four days since Dean had seen Cas, a few hours since he’d seen Jimmy, but it seemed like much longer. Cas looked good, calm. None of the tight, aggressive anger that tended to stiffen Cas’ face in unapproachable cold was evident. Not that he looked easy going – Cas _never_ looked easy going – but he looked natural, unintimidating, at least until he directed his icy stare at the camera.

“Good afternoon,” he said, leaning towards the microphones unnecessarily, low voice sending a sympathetic shiver down Dean’s spine.

“Are you anticipating having trouble with the Pirates lineup?”

“No,” Castiel said with absolute confidence. “I’d have to be foolish to take players the caliber of Andrew McCutchen, Starling Marte and Francisco Cervelli for granted, but I have won most of my career starts against the Pirates. While I expect a challenging game, I am confident that I will be able to succeed against them as I have before.”

“In the past, you’ve seemed reticent to pitch to Aaron Bass, would you care to speak to that?”

“Bass is one of the best defensive catchers I’ve had the honor of pitching to, and I’m pleased that he will be behind the plate for my start.”

“Have you heard any word on the state of Dean Winchester’s injuries?”

“That is a question for the managers,” said Cas quellingly, expression betraying nothing.

“You mean you haven’t been to see him? Your brother has visited him more than once.”

Dean snorted under his breath. Fucking vultures, spying on his visitor list. Sam shot him a sympathetic look.

“My brother has been staying with me since his season with the Braves concluded but I do not monitor his behavior,” Cas said. “He is free to go where he will and do what he wishes.”

“The rumors that James Novak and Winchester are dating don’t distress you?”

“How they spend their time is none of my business,” reiterated Cas. “Do you have any further questions for me pertaining to my game tomorrow?” Despite his apparently calm tone, Cas’ cheeks were growing dark with anger.

“Even though you kissed Winchester after his walk-off home run during the last game of the regular season?”

Dean’s jaw dropped. Cas _had_ kissed him, of course, but how did they _know_? They’d been completely surrounded by other players at the time. The only people who could have seen were their teammates. One of them must have said something.

“Thank you for your interest in this matter,” Milton’s voice, faint for lack of a microphone, interrupted before Castiel could turn his furious expression into furious words. “Novak, thank you for your time. Get up there, Samandriel.”

Sam was staring at him. Dean tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed, tried to focus on Alfie discussing his role as closer in the games to come, but he felt the intensity of Sam’s gaze and his cheeks flushed. The words Alfie and the media exchanged washed over him but he couldn’t lend them meaning.

“Dean.”

Dean ignored him.

“Come on, Dean.”

Dean bit his lip and continued to ignore him.

With a sigh, Sam reached across Dean, grabbed the remote and hit mute. “What was that all about, Dean?”

“Beats me,” Dean lied.

“Holy shit, you really did it,” said Sam, voice equal parts wonder and annoyance. “You’re such a fucking idiot. You had a good thing going with Jimmy, why would you cheat on him with his brother?”

“It’s not like that,” Dean snapped.

“You’ve always been shit at lying to me, Dean,” Sam snapped right back. “You self-sabotaging moron. Can’t you let yourself have something good for even a couple months before you fuck it up?”

“I said _it’s not like that_ ,” Dean reiterated, temper rising. “But it’s nice to know you’ve got such a high opinion of me, always can count on my brother to believe the best of me.”

“Don’t try to make this about me,” warned Sam, voice also growing louder. “If it’s not what I think, then talk to me. What _is_ it like?”

“It’s nothing, Sam. There’s nothing.” The last thing Dean wanted was to tell Sam the truth. There was no way that would end well.

There was a long, awkward pause. Their eyes locked together, Sam’s face flushed with anger, both of them breathing hard.

“Does Jimmy know?” Sam asked at last.

“Sam…”

“You know, I thought you really had something here,” Sam continued. “And I’m just trying to wrap my head around this. Last time I saw you, you were talking about moving to Atlanta to be with him. Look, no one knows better than we do how much strain being a player puts on a relationship, and I get that the Novaks are identical twins, but I can’t believe you’d ruin your relationship this way.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Dean said.

“Well I can’t understand shit if you won’t explain it to me!”

“Jimmy knows!”

“That you cheated on him with Cas?”

“I didn’t—” Dean started shouting, took a deep breath and forced himself to continue more calmly. If the only way to get Sam to lay off him was to tell him the truth, then Dean would tell him the fucking truth, but he wasn’t going to bellow it for every passing jackass in the hall to hear. He was fed up of people butting in to his life and his business, sick of assholes using that information to make things awkward for Jimmy and Cas. “I didn’t cheat on Jimmy with Cas. I’d never cheat on Jimmy. He’s fucking awesome, and he loves me.” Sam made a noise in the back of his throat but didn’t interrupt. “Yeah, he’s an idiot and he’s got shit taste, what can I say.” A scowl deepened Sam’s expression ridiculously, comical in how exaggerated it was. “And Cas…Cas loves me too. And I…” Had he even told Cas about his feelings yet? “I dig both of them.”

Sam pursed his lips, judging Dean and clearly finding him wanting. “So you’re taking advantage of Jimmy’s affections to have two boyfriends at once?”

“Fucking hell…what, did I spit in your cornflakes or something?”

“Not since I was seven.”

“Why are you so determined to think the worst of me?” said Dean, disgusted.

“I’m not, Dean, but you do realize nothing about this makes any sense, right?”

“It makes perfect sense when you know that Jimmy and Cas have been in a relationship with each other for years.” Dean _hated_ telling their secret, hated outing them without having their permission to do so. Sam’s expression went from judgmental to shocked in a heartbeat. His wide-eyed amazement was nearly as silly as his scowl had been. “You understand that information _never_ leaves this room, right? We’re not talking about it again, you are not telling Gabe, you are not sharing and caring with your therapist, you will not approach the twins about it. Do I make myself clear?”

“You’re serious,” muttered Sam. He raked a hand through his hair, huffed out a breath as he sprawled back in the too-small hospital chair. “Dean—”

“ _Did I make myself clear_?” Dean demanded.

“Fine – yeah, I won’t tell anyone, not even Gabe,” Sam conceded. “So, this is an incest thing?”

“It’s an incest thing,” agreed Dean. “I guess. They love each other. But I guess it got all fucked up when Jimmy accepted the trade to Atlanta? I dunno, they haven’t told me and I haven’t asked. It’s all fixed now, and given Cas’ temper, well, bygones should be bygones or some shit. It’s not that I’m dating Jimmy and also seeing Cas on the side. I’m dating Jimmy, and I’m dating Cas…and Jimmy is dating me and he’s dating Cas…and Cas is dating both of us…you get the idea. It’s the three of us, or it’s nothing.”

Dean’s heart thudded nervously. Telling anyone, even Sam, was potentially ruinous, but Dean couldn’t let his brother leave misunderstanding him so completely. Of course, if Sam would only have fucking trusted him…no. Despite his frustration, Dean knew Sam was only looking out for him. Dean’s past alcoholism, a youth of poor choices, and whatever suspicions Sam nursed about how Dean had spent all his money, all meant that though Sam might want to trust, he had cause not to. In this case, Sam was dead wrong, though, and Dean needed Sam to understand that. As silence stretched out, Dean watched Sam’s shifting expression, trying to figure out what his brother was thinking.

“Do they make you happy?” Sam asked finally.

“Yeah, Sammy, they do. They really, really do.”

“Good,” said Sam, looking away from him. “I’m glad. You deserve it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. If this works for you – if it works for them – it’s not really any of my business, is it? I’m sorry I assumed the worst. That was a douche move.”

“Yeah, it was,” Dean said, breaking into a smile. “Thanks, Sam. You’re not giving me shit about this…it means a lot.”

“As long as you’re happy.”

“I’ve never been happier in my life,” Dean confessed. He’d never spoken truer words.

* * *

If Bass was surprised that Jimmy and Dean attended Cas’ pregame preparation for the first game of the NLDS, he didn’t say anything. Bass’ laid back attitude had always been one of his most positive features. Dean’s knee ached, his wheel chair was uncomfortable, and the day was uncomfortably, unseasonably hot, but despite that the meeting went well. By the end, Cas even seemed to have forgotten that he was pissed at Dean. When they finished, Cas and Jimmy left together to work in the bullpen; Jimmy had gotten permission from Singer to help Cas with his warm up, provided they kept it quiet. Bass dawdled in the meeting room as Dean awkwardly maneuvered his chair around the tables, cleaning up the binders and charts they’d been studying as a group.

“Is it true?” Bass blurted. Startled, Dean looked up and caught his gaze. Bass looked away, embarrassed, fiddling with a button on his uniform. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. I just…I thought, if you really were with James – Jimmy – Novak…”

“You’re right, it’s none of your damn business,” snapped Dean. Someone on the team had outed his kiss with Cas, someone on the team had the press on his case…there was no chance it was Bass. Dean would lay heavy odds it was fucking Gordon Walker, but he still didn’t want to talk about it.

“I’m gay.” Bass spoke so softly that Dean wasn’t sure he’d heard right. With a questioning look, he watched Bass closely, saw the young man color pink, stare at his feet, then look up at Dean once more, expression defiant. “I’m gay,” he repeated more confidently. “And I think it sucks that we…that _I_ …have to keep it a secret. I thought it was very brave of you not to deny it even when the press was on your case. You could have gotten them to leave you alone by saying it was all bull, but instead you deflected. I was inspired. I’ve been thinking of coming out. The more players who are known to be queer, the easier it’ll be for others. So I was wondering if, you know, if it was true – if you were into guys, gay or bisexual, and if you and Jimmy were…a thing…”

A slow blink helped calm Dean’s pounding heartbeat. Aaron Bass wasn’t a danger to him, wasn’t a threat to Jimmy or Cas. Fuck, Dean didn’t even know how the twins defined their sexuality. He’d never asked and they’d never told him, though he knew that at least Cas had once dated a woman. It hadn’t occurred to Dean that his accidental semi-outing would serve as an inspiration to anyone. He’d never thought himself an inspiration in any capacity, not as a player and definitely not as a man. Maybe…

“Yeah, it’s true.” Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be more open about things. “I’m gay, not bi.” Maybe Dean had things to offer off the field, not just helping Cas, not just supporting Jimmy. “And, though we’ve got to keep it secret, I am dating Jimmy. I think he’s bi but I’m honestly not sure.”

Bass gave him a shy smile. “That’s…that’s really something. Thanks for sharing with me. I’ll keep your secret, promise.”

 _Maybe you won’t need to_.

* * *

“Hey, Bobby?”

“Yeah, boy?”

“There’s something I gotta tell you.”

“Uh huh…?”

“I’m gay.”

“Does this have anything to do with the game tonight?”

“Huh? No, ‘course not.”

“Then quit wasting my time.”

“…oh.”

 “By the way, you’re hired.”

“Huh?”

“Novak told me you wanted a position on the pitching staff for next year. You’re hired.”

“Son of a…no, not you, him!”

“You’re lucky you got such good friends, boy, ‘specially if that’s how you talk about them.”

“Yeah yeah…I…I mean…”

“I’m proud of you, Dean.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“Now get outta here, ya idjit, I’ve got a game to prepare for.”

* * *

“Hey, Jo.”

“Heya, Dean, how’re you feeling?”

“Not bad. I mean, it hurts like fuck but that’s to be expected.”

“I can help you with your physical therapy over the winter, if you’d like.”

“That’d work. I think Cas was hoping you’d train with him, too.”

“Yeah, sure. It’ll give me something to do.”

“Something other than Charlie Bradbury?”

“Asshole. And yes. I plan to _do_ Charlie all winter, not that it’s any of your business. Are you planning on coming back to my place tonight?”

“Honestly? No. Cas has offered me crash space indefinitely and I was thinking I’d take him up on the offer, move my shit over there.”

“Oh, really? Is Jimmy spending the winter there, too?”

“And if he were?”

“Just wondering.”

“Yeah he is.”

“So, the two of you…?”

“So, you and Charlie?”

“She’s my plus one to Sam and Gabriel’s wedding!”

“And Jimmy is mine.”

“And Cas?”

“What about him?”

“You know there always were some funny rumors about the Novak twins…”

“Jo.”

“I’m just asking.”

“ _Jo_.”

“Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.”

“I’m gay.”

“That doesn’t count as a secret, everyone who knows you figured that out ages ago.”

“And Cas will be at the wedding.”

“You know, being poly is way more risqué than being gay.”

“Not having this conversation.”

“Aw, Dean, c’mon…”

“No. There’s no ‘c’mon.’ There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Very convincing, Winchester.”

“Shove it, Harvelle.”

“Love you, Dean.”

“I love you too, Jo.”

* * *

The warm glow that Dean’s conversations with Bass, Bobby and Jo left him with easily carried him through game one of the NLDS. Despite some tense moments, as Castiel had predicted the game was basically no contest. The Pirates were good but Cas was still in the same zone that had carried him through his no-hitter. Cas pitched a complete game, only allowed two hits, two walks and no runs. Further, the Nationals players found the hitting they’d lost the last week of the regular season and they hit the shit outta the ball, turning the game into an eight-to-nothing rout. Exhilarated, Dean headed home with the twins and was treated to playing voyeur while Cas fucked Jimmy into incoherence.

It was a fucking _great_ day.

The Nationals lost game two of the NLDS. No one took it too hard except for Tran, who was devastated that he hadn’t done his part for the team. Fitzgerald, on the other hand, took his loss in the third game with the same endless optimism he showed towards everything. No one should be that chipper after getting shelled for six runs in five innings. Game 4 was supposed to be Reidy’s start but, with the team’s post-season hopes on the line, Turner swapped out the veteran and started Cas instead. Dean white-knuckled his way through the entire game. His doctors had ordered him to bed rest, and though he’d wanted to follow the Nationals to Pittsburgh, he’d been categorically forbidden from doing so. Instead, he was forced to watch the game from the Novak’s leather couch, inadequately venting his nerves on texts back and forth to Jimmy, who was there. The game was a nail-biter to the end, but Cas pulled out the win, one-nothing.

It didn’t end up mattering. The Nationals lost Game 5 and their season was over. No ring, no further glory, no story book ending.

“But,” as Jimmy philosophized over drinks after Cas and he returned home following the last game, “every team has a story-book success story going in to the post-season. Every team overcame shit, every team fought through impossible odds, every team had critical players go down to injury, but every team made it to those big games. Every team had the air of inevitability to their run, up until the moment they lost. Only one team actually gets the storybook ending. It wasn’t us last year, and it’s not this year either. So, you lost. Doesn’t mean you didn’t have one heck of a fucking awesome season.”

“Jimmy…you weren’t even on the team,” Cas objected.

“Not the point,” Jimmy said mildly.

“What _is_ your point?” asked Dean.

“Just – sure, it sucks, but…but…oh fuck it, I don’t know. Cas, may I blow Dean?”

Dean choked on his beer. “Excuse me?” he spluttered. “Wouldn’t you need my permission, not his?”

“Only if you blow me as well,” said Cas flatly.

“But then how will I get off?” Jimmy whined, though his expression made it clear he was playing up his petulance.

“Dean’ll take care of you.”

“I can work with that.”

“Don’t I get any say at all?” Dean demanded.

Both twins turned to him, expressions identical.

“No,” they said simultaneously.

“Fucking assholes,” muttered Dean.

“Not tonight,” Castiel deadpanned.

“You know you love it,” Jimmy added.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, and then broke into a smile. “God help me, I love both you jerks. I’m not…I’m not coming between you, am I?”

“Not tonight, you’re not, but I’m sure we can figure something out once you’re out of that wheel chair,” said Castiel as Jimmy laughed.

“Son of a…Jimmy, get your mouth of here.”

“Cas…?”

“ _Don’t ask him_!”

“Go for it, brother.”

“Why do I put up with this cr— Holy _shit_ , Jimmy!”

Sure, winning the game, winning the NLDS, winning the post-season would have been awesome, but this was awesome too. Dean was loved, he was in love, and that was worth more than a World Series Ring.

…okay, that was kind of bullshit. Winning a ring would have been fucking perfect. But this was fucking perfect, too, and Dean wouldn’t trade his twins for the world.

And it wasn’t the end of the line. Now that Dean was on the Nationals staff, if the team won the World Series the following year, or the year after that, or any year that Dean was on the staff, he still had a shot for a ring.

“Love you, Jimmy,” Dean gasped as that sinful mouth went to work on him. “Love you, Cas.”

“We love you too, Dean,” said Castiel warmly. Jimmy hummed his agreement, sensation vibrating through Dean’s cock.

Fuck the World Series. This was perfect.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Epilogue**

Dean took a deep breath and let it whoosh out. Despite the coolness of the day, it felt swelteringly hot in the Nationals press conference room. Sweat beaded on his brow beneath his hat, made an unpleasant, sodden track down the dip of his spine. Tension filled the air, dozens of reporters gathered silent in the room, staring at the podium. Their expressions ranged from eager to confused to indifferent. Milton rose from her seat beside Dean and took easy strides to the podium.

“I imagine…” she paused as it became clear that the microphones weren’t on yet, waited for an all-clear from a mulleted tech guy at the back of the room. “Thank you all for coming today,” she started anew, voice amplified unnecessarily loud in the quiet room. “I imagine you’re wondering why we’ve called a press conference today. As you are no doubt aware, Dean Winchester has retired from his career as a professional baseball player, but he will be joining the Nationals staff for the 2017 season as a talent scout, catching coach, and pitching consultant.” Skepticism and uncertainty became more prevalent among those assembled. Dean could practically read their collective minds – surely, they were all thinking, surely _this_ is not why Milton had called a press conference only days after the Chicago Cubs finally, _finally_ fucking won the World Series for the first time in over a century. It was like Jimmy had said – the Nationals do-or-die last game no-hitter was impressive as a post-season story line but it had nothing on the Cubs finally breaking [the curse of the billy goat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curse_of_the_Billy_Goat). “When Mr. Winchester first approached us about holding this press conference, we were reluctant, but after extensive discussion with the team’s ownership, we’ve decided that this is the direction we’d like to take the Nationals, and that we hope the rest of Major League Baseball will proceed in as well. Dean?”

Hands shaking, Dean rose, his knee brace forcing him to limp as he took Milton’s place before the crowd. She gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she returned to her seat; flashbulbs burst brilliant light as cameras captured the moment. The assembled journalists still appeared puzzled but some had apparently concluded that something big was coming, even if they weren’t sure what it was, and they were going to get the scoop.

Gripping the podium so hard his hands went white, Dean surveyed the audience. Not for the first time, he wished that Jimmy or Cas were there, but as a threesome they’d decided that this moment was Dean’s and Dean’s alone. Dean would never make history as a player, never make history for catching, almost certainly never make history for coaching. He _had_ made history by catching Cas’ no-hitter, though, and he would make history for this.

“I know three things. The first is that Cas Novak is going to win the Cy Young this year. The second is that the Nationals are going all the way next year. And the last is that Bert and Ernie are gay. And so am I. I’m gay.”

A cacophony of questions erupted all at once, but Dean ignored them. Smacking the podium, he nodded once to himself, managed a bemused half-smile for the media, and returned to his chair.

Jimmy and Cas were proud of him for deciding to do this. Sammy was proud of him, and so was Gabe. Bobby and Milton and Turner all thought that, whether this was a good idea or not, Dean was brave for doing it. Bass had wept openly when Dean had told him his intentions. All of that was awesome, but none of it mattered, not really.

For the first time in his entire life, Dean was proud of himself.

And he’d be going back home to his two fucking _awesome_ boyfriends.

Best. Season. Ever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's that.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed. This has truly been a labor of love for me.
> 
> For my regulars, now that this is done I'll be working on the sequel to Sextersanon.com, and then I'll be tackling Abnormal, trying to finish it.
> 
> Interested in updates, lots of art, or getting to be friends? You should follow me on tumblr! My username is unforth-ninawaters. :)
> 
> eta: this is as much a note to myself as anything, but a couple people have asked me about timestamps and suggested what they wanted to see, and I wanted to write them down someplace so I wouldn't forget. :)  
> Ltleflrt: "I'd be interested in timestamps from Jimmy's POV. During and after the story. Maybe something about how hard it was for him after he moved out, and how Dean made it better?"  
> victimoflove: "I'd like to see how the relationship is going like a year later. How they deal with problems that come they're way. How Dean is treated after coming out, and how his new job is working out...and of course more smexy fun time lol."  
> jhoom: "Jimmy's POV would be great or how they're doing a few years out (how Dean's liking working the management side of things, if the twins end up on the same team again, etc). But hey, I'm not picky ^-^"  
> WinchesterWithWings: "Jimmy's still with the Braves right? So when it's the season he'll be moving again temporarily? How will they 3 handle it as a couple? Of course obviously they'll make it work..."  
> naniquena: "SABRIEL WEDDING."  
> jhoom (again :) ): "I need a Pitchers and Catchers timestamp where Cas has to do some ridiculously cheesy commercial for Harris Teeter"


End file.
